


Let me make it up to you

by CC_Writes



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Audience participation encouraged, Depression, Gift Giving, Grimmons, Language, Lopez/Sheila, Low Self-Esteem, M/M, Sequel, Transhumanism, additional tags may appear in the future, please let me know if there's anything you'd like me to tag, series appropriate language, suggestions encouraged, transhumanist themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-12-10 21:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 46,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11700177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CC_Writes/pseuds/CC_Writes
Summary: A sequel to "Tattoo" but it's not necessary to read it beforehand.Simmons feelings towards Grif have always been complicated but there's no doubt that he's the one person out here who he can stand to be around and the one person who maybe makes him happy. So he decides he's going to give Grif a gift to make up for all this maybe friendship that he's sure he doesn't deserve.Too bad nothing seems good enough...Audience participation is encouraged! If you've got a gift idea you'd like to see feel free to throw it my way!





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> By request, I give you all "Simmons tries to think of thank you gifts for Grif but is shit at it! ... Or is he?"  
> Technically a sequel to "Tattoo" but you don't have to read it first to understand what's going on. The prologue should give you the general idea, hopefully. Enjoy! <3

 

 

Choosing a gift for someone was hard. Even if you knew them really well. Even if they had told you what they wanted at some point.

Because it wasn't about what the gift _was_ , it was about what it _said_.

It had to be just the right thing to get across what you wanted to say. To convey or imply or show.

So, if the message was complicated or specific that just made it harder. Like say, for the sake of argument, you were trying to say, "thank you." or "thank you for doing something nice for me." or "thank you for doing something nice for me even though you didn't have to." or "thank you for doing something nice for me even though you didn't have to because I'm really nothing special.".

Or, "Thank you for doing something nice for me even though you didn't have to because I'm really nothing special, I'm pretty shit actually, and I know I don't deserve anything nice so I'm really baffled by why you would be nice to me in the first place not that I'm ungrateful or anything it means so much more than you could know so I wanted to get you something for your trouble."

Something like that...

So, it was easy to see Simmons' predicament. That it was anything but easy to think of a proper thank you gift for Grif.

The gift was for Grif by the way.

The only person who was nice to him out here, which was baffling.

 

Well, revise that statement, it wasn't that the rest of Red Team was mean to him or anything, at least not more than he deserved, just that... see...

 

Sarge was their Sargent, he wasn't supposed to be nice to them, not in anything beyond a guiding mentor sort of way, a shining prize to be earned for sure, some day Simmons would be good enough, impressive enough, to earn that praise. He was gruff too yeah, but that just went with the territory.

He made some calls, made some plans, made some choices... on his behalf... that Simmons' couldn't understand. Not disagreed with, he'd never disagree, that was disrespectful. It was just obvious that he didn't see the big picture Sarge did, that he still had work to do, things to learn.

He wasn't resentful at all! Wasn't mad about the... _incident_... Where he'd said "no" but it had happened anyway. Not that he could regret that, if he'd somehow not done it then Grif would be dead. So, there were no two ways about it. No complaining. No right to complain when a teammate could have died. Sarge clearly knew best!

Umm... uh, so yeah Sarge didn't go out of the way to be nice to him, but that was fine, he wasn't supposed to be.

 

Donut was... Friendly? The guy was practically exploding with positivity and made no mystery his desire to befriend anything with a pulse in a thousand-mile radius. Simmons was absolutely certain that if he allowed it Donut would declare them bosom buddies and shower him with affectionate gestures.

Which at face value might seem like a fantastic solution to being soul crushingly lonely and depressed (when he was sensible enough to admit that he was) but see that, in itself, was the problem. Donut had no filter and no volume, he was at maximum all the time, and Simmons just couldn't deal with that. It was suffocating, and the non-negotiable physical contact made him want to collapse into a ball and scream himself hoarse. It might seem hypocritical given the attention starved state he was in, but it was like... Like if you were dying of dehydration and someone stranded you in an endless lake.

Great for about two seconds before you started to drown.

Plus, all the innuendos, on purpose or not, made him horrifically uncomfortable and highly concerned about getting cornered in a locked room somewhere.

And that had absolutely nothing to do with Donut being gay, okay? Homophobia was a barbaric and ridiculous idea that any civilized person would turn their nose up at. Not to mention, it would be rather hypocritical of him all things considered.

Nope, it was solely that Donut was the gay Tucker, or Tucker was the straight Donut. Neither had an off switch, both were always shamelessly cruising for "tail" (even if Donut hit it under massive layers of innuendo and possibly feigned ignorance) and both gave off the disturbing impression that not only did they not have any concept of personal space but that the word "no" was not in their vocabulary.

Highly concerning.

He almost felt bad for Tex, who was surely hit on with every other breath, if he didn't know that she'd already introduced Tucker to his own asshole on more than one occasion, at least that's what he'd gleaned from the last time they'd eavesdropped on the Blue's radio frequency. Or well, the last time _he_ had, because Sarge was the Sargent, Grif wouldn't do it, and Donut used it as a gossip party line.

 

So that left Grif. Not like "left" as in "oh well I guess you'll do!" but as in "we have arrived at the end of the list!"

Grif was... Complicated? He gave him shit a lot, made fun of him, played some pranks that _maaaaaaybe_ crossed the line into being mean? But it never felt... _that_ mean? Like, and he was probably over thinking it because there was no way it was true, but, sometimes it felt like Grif was doing it on purpose? Like the goal wasn't to try and actually hurt him or put him down?

Sure, they made him mad, Gif had figured out in remarkably short order exactly what buttons to push to set him off, but afterward, he always felt, better? Like he'd lost a weight off his shoulders? If that made sense.

Wasn't like they didn't have anything in common either. Grif liked stupid Sci-Fi and comics and games. He always seemed to have interesting topics of conversation too, so they actually spent a lot of the time talking. But not like Donut levels of talking, Grif either had the same limit he did or knew what his was and kept it from going over. So, he'd never felt overwhelmed strangely, not even when they argued.

He... Didn't know how he felt about all that really. By all accounts, he was everything Grif should despise, and Grif was everything he should despise, and there were a lot of his habits that he absolutely did. Yet... There was just something about being around him...? That kind of made things seem not so bad?

It was more than he deserved by far.

Ugh, he'd gotten way off track.

Grif, a gift for Grif. To thank Grif. Okay.

 

Simmons sighed, looking up at the ceiling from his place on his bunk, said ceiling was gray, made of concrete, and entirely unhelpful. Shocking.

He closed his eyes a moment and lightly tapped the stylus against the electronic pad propped up against the thigh of his bent cybernetic leg. He could feel the almost rhythmic hum of the electricity flowing around inside it, from the battery to systems in need of power, hard drive, processor, screen, cooling...  
Well, saying "feel" was probably the wrong word, "hear" was too, "detect" was the most accurate but fell short. Frustrating. Specifically, the sensors in his leg were picking up input of various types and his organic brain was doing it's best to turn that into something recognizable. Still hard to describe, like the rare human who could "hear" a faint whine from electronics that were turned on.

It was really weird, but he was getting better at dealing with it, at least he thought so, was still prone to crushingly horrific panic attacks every once and a while. Sometimes he could feel them building, sometimes they came right out of nowhere. In particular, they were fond of popping up when he remembered he wasn't human anymore or was doing something that humans don't do or can't do, or (and this was that best) when he realized he was actually enjoying some aspect of his monstrous new body or **forgot** to be disgusted by it.

This sort of thing, the sensory input, at least this kind, he had a good handle on. Probably because it was oddly soothing, so it kept the panic at bay, it was almost like having a cat in your lap, if the cat wasn't alive or thinking, or a cat, and was actually just a big screen.

Speaking of...

The cyborg looked down mournfully at the disaster that was displayed on said screen. A written, crossed off, rewritten, recrossed off, underlined, question marked, circled, scribbled out, mess, of everything he knew about Grif pertaining to what he liked and did not like, and what sorts of gifts or gestures might be relevant or related to said interests.

Each one was a dead end.

Damn it, he was so shit at giving gifts! Especially when he actually wanted to give them!

The obvious answer you would think would be food, ah but you would be wrong! Because food was so _obvious_! Of course, Grif liked food, everyone knew that, so that would obviously be the first thing anyone who so much as saw Grif once would think to give him! So, it was basically the Grif equivalent of getting _socks_. No, scratch that, a **gift card** , because you could get something you actually wanted with a gift card but the card itself was a quick, easy, gift that required next to no effort. Didn't show even remotely that you gave two shits.

Except... Grif did unabashedly love food. Like to the point where he'd do stupid shit, sometimes life threatening, to get his hands on something he particularly liked.

So, food was not off the table.

Bad pun! Unintentional, but still bad pun! _Bad Simmons! Bad! No!_

 

Said terrible joke telling pun sinner groaned, dragging his hands down his face.

 

Okay, so in summation, Grif liked a lot of things, they were all painfully obvious and simple things, so everything was simultaneously an excellent gift and a terrible gift.

Mixed matched fingers gripped his nearly too short hair, eyes clenched shut, he whined pitifully. Fuck he wanted to cry. Why was this so hard?! Why couldn't he just think of something?! Why couldn't-?!

Oh! _Oh,_ oh oh _!_ Wait wait **wait**! Okay, so maybe, maybe... _Maybe_... Instead of the gift determining the value, the creativity or effort put into making or acquiring it would equate?

Was a start anyway.

Sitting up properly Simmons cleared the tablet and started again. He shifted his shoulders to shake off the stiffness and reached back to rub at his neck, pausing when his fingers brushed the edges of the shapes engraved there.

Yeah, he'd figure it out, he'd repay the gesture somehow.

He just had to work hard.

 

 


	2. Waffles, and other breakfast fancies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When in doubt start with what you know. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excluding the title, the word "Waffle" appears 65 times in this chapter.

 

 

          Grif woke up so completely and abruptly that for the first few seconds of consciousness he stared wide eyed at the ceiling, having a minor panic attack trying to figure out what the holy hell had woken him up. _Early_. Which was unacceptable.

After those first seconds, however, his eyes widened further as the reason for his awakening hit him again and he literally rolled out of his bed and scrambled to the door. Only to remember he was not, in fact, wearing any pants and racing back to the nearest discarded pair on the floor (standard issue military digital desert camo, yes sir, yes sir) almost tripping and eating the unforgiving concrete floor in his haste to put two feet in a single pant leg.

He remedied the issue and in short-order was racing full tilt down the hallway, where he nearly collided with Sarge when he rounded a corner too sharply, bounding past him with a high pitched incoherent yell that was one part apology and one part war cry.

It was over so quickly that Sarge didn't have any time to respond or even get angry, only staring in dumbfounded horror at Grif's swiftly retreating back. He stood in total silence for an unknown amount of time, only broken by the clatter of his helmet slipping from under his arm and hitting the floor.

Paralysis broken, he pressed a trembling gloved hand to his forehead, ineffectually checking for a fever that didn't exist. The same unsteady hands picked his helmet up from where it had fallen and he continued on his way albeit a little wobbly, mumbling under his breath about Blue conspiracies and hallucinations caused by the heat and the sun.

 

 

          By that point Grif was almost at the mess hall, his hopefully ultimate destination, though really that was in name only, it was just a kitchenette and a longish table with some chairs. It looked more like something you'd find in a college dorm. Guess it made sense though, the base wasn't very big.

That was completely irrelevant! Because that thing that had woken him up? So much stronger here!

That thing was a _smell_.

A distinctive smell.

An unmistakable smell! Of flour and sugar and milk and eggs, and the most important part, **oil**! Yes! Similar to another tasty treat but the underlying scent of oil being as prominent as it was belied the promise of crispy golden outer layers rather than tanned soft chewy ones!

Please don't be some kind of joke! If this was a prank it was too cruel! Only a monster would do such a thing!

He nearly fell over trying to stop as he whipped through the door, anchoring himself with a death grip to the frame.

It must have been loud because it seemed his entrance had startled Donut, who was frozen mid turn, mossy eyes wide, frilly pink apron and everything, bleach blond hair still messy from sleep, though perhaps a bit too perfectly messed to be accidental.

The perky young man swiftly composed himself, grinning cheerfully as Grif gasped for breath in the doorway.

"Good morning Grif!" he bubbled, "What a wonderful surprise to see you up so early!" With a completely necessary twirl, he hefted the plate in his hands in a show of artistry.

"Now I bet you're here for-" " **ARE THOSE FUCKING WAFFLES!?** "

The faux blond blinked rapidly, startled by the sudden outburst, "Well far be it from me to assume the sexual habits of breakfast foods... And mind I’m not going to judge you either." he began cautiously, "But these are indeed waffles my hungry man!"

And by god he was right, there on the plate was a stack of waffles, 6? No, 7! Behind him on the counter there was a bowl, spoon sticking out, a bag of flour and other assorted items, behind that the old waffle iron that had been there forever and had never worked. But now apparently did...

"How?" Grif asked, eyes snapping back to the stack in Donut's hands, far more important, he wanted one so bad... But this was so sudden, so weird, that just this once it could wait.

... Just for a little.

"Well, I'm not sure exactly." Donut admitted, moving to set the stack on the table before returning to the counter to see to the next batch, "Serendipitous I think. You know how we got our monthly supply drop yesterday? Well seems it was just _gushing_ with all sorts of goodies!"

Grif frowned, "Like what?"

"Oh, just lots of like... Raw things I guess? Like these aren't from mix. It's highly unusual I admit but it seems it was a mix-up? Or was it to make up for that time they forgot to send food? You remember? That was when the Blues got double what they normally do?” The pink soldier tittered, starting to stray from the point, “It was such a trying time, Sarge was furious, but Caboose was nice enough to give us some of theirs in exchange for a nice show toon! Such a relief, I didn’t even have to get on my knees that time!”

Grif cringed, “That’s… great.” His eyes went back to the plate on the table, slowly inching towards his chair, calculating just how long he had to feign interest before he could rush the tasty breakfast treat without Donut getting offended and not making more, “So clerical error then?”

“Goodness, I don’t know!” His teammate giggled, “Something like that I think. Simmons was talking about it when he was putting everything away, I was spotting him, for the top shelves. Well, mostly I was just watching. I think he said it was something to do with 'cost effectiveness'? But I don’t really hear him. I kept getting distracted. His hair is so _red_ , you know? And you just have to wonder if he treats it at all. And you know how he’s so tall too? And our shirts are all standard issue so sometimes they get mixed up and he gets one of mine. I don’t mind, of course, they fit him so well! But they’re a little short so sometimes they ride up and you just start wondering if the drapes match you _know_? And so you try to catch a peek? And then you wonder just how far down all that shiny metal goes, which I mean I do know, I **was** there. But you just have to wonder. Right Grif?” He playfully tilted his head, “What were we talking about again?”

“… Fuck, I don’t know. I think I died and went to hell part way through.” Grif replied, voice void of the will to go on.

 

          He sank into a chair and reached pitifully for the platter of waffles, time to get back some of the happy, he’d been so excited less than ten seconds ago, now he just wanted his soul to leave his body.

Maybe he could replace his soul with waffles?

With a skill born from years of living under the law of ' _if you don't grab it now you won't have any_ ' the heavyset man, in an oddly graceful move, transferred the contents of the platter to a plate that had been set at the place he now sat at.

“Oh! Guess we need more!” Donut observed chipperly, “It's always so gratifying to see a man with a big strong appetite!” oblivious to Grif's sour expression he continued on, “Gosh I almost forgot! Can't have waffles with no syrup can we?” After checking to make sure the now happily sizzling waffle in the iron wasn't going to burn if he wasn't there he rummaged in a nearby cabinet popping back up with a bottle of syrup, prancing over to pass it to Grif, “Nothing like a mouthful of nice **hot** , _slippery_ , goodness, to really lube up your insides!”

Please never speak again. Just never. Never ever.

While his brain dedicated itself to the task of adding that comment to the ever growing pile of ' _Things Donut has said that must be repressed_ ', Grif all but upended the offered bottle over his plate of waffles, drowning them in sweet syrupy goodness! Now if they just had butter... Well, there might be some for all he knew, but he wasn't going to waste any more time not eating these golden beauties!

Skewering the first waffle on his fork, the Hawaiian shoved the whole thing in his mouth, or he tried to, it didn't all fit. _Pft_ , as though that would stop him. He just started chewing, pulling more and more waffle in as he went, splattering excess syrup back onto the plate.

He didn't miss Donut's almost horrified cringe from where he stood by the waffle iron at the sight of his infamous eating habits. Whatever, served him right, shooting his mouth off and saying all that creepy shit all the time, he was due for some petty vengeance.

Swallowing the waffle with an all mighty gulp and a soul satisfied purr, well to him it sounded like a purr, he reached for the glass of OJ that had been set out, wiping off his mouth with the back of his forearm and then licking the smeared syrup off of said arm. Good thing Simmons wasn't there or he'd have gotten an earful of crap, speaking of certain red haired nerds and the consequences of one's actions, “Hey so, what else was in there? Just that?”

Delighted by the opportunity to continue conversing, Donut launched back into speech as he fetched the platter from the table and transferred the fresh stack of waffles from the iron onto it, “Oh lot's of things! I thought we should start with these since they're such a nice surprise and you can make lots in just one go, we might even have extras!”

Poor fool. There would be no extras.

“Let me seeeee... There are the eggs obviously, and milk, the flour and what not.... I think there was bread? I swear I saw Simmons put some away. As far as breakfast things go we have some frozen fruits I can thaw, just warm up their little tushes! There's-”

Please say bacon, please say bacon, please say bacon.

“bacon.”

_Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!_

“I swear I saw peanut butter and jelly... There're some veggies, not sure if they're frozen too or not, but there were potatoes I think? I saw some nice thick juicy meat in the freezer so there's that! Oh, my I should make a list! Or find Simmons' list, I'm sure he made one.”

The ditzy lightish red soldier perked up, “Speak of the devil! Good morning Simmons!”

 

          Grif whipped his head around, “F'immens!” he cried, around a mouthful, quickly swallowing it, “THERE ARE WAFFLES!”

Said 'F'immens' paused where he was, only part way into the kitchen, he was dressed in the same standard issue clothes the rest of them were, only far more prim and proper, shirt tucked in, or squared, or whatever, he looked to have been part way through stretching a kink or something out of his neck, rubbing the back with his hand, “Jesus Grif, don't talk with your mouthful, it's gross. How many times do I have to tell you? I sound like your fucking mother...”

“WAFFLES!”

His expression briefly changed, flickering through a few emotions that Grif couldn't quite decipher, there was a kind of soft smile, one that actually reached his eyes, kind of fond? Or maybe pleased or proud? Weird. What was that all about?

Whatever.

“Yup, those are waffles. I guess that means everything really was okay. I wasn't completely sure when I unpacked it all.”

He pulled out a chair, settling next to Grif where he always sat, like some kind of instinctive assigned seating, holding out his plate to accept the fresh set of waffles Donut offered him with an uncomfortable but polite smile at the almost suggestive wink the other soldier gave him.

“So,” Grif said cheerfully between bites, “Donut said that this was all because of you?”

Man, it was always so satisfying to fuck with Simmons, especially when he wasn't doing it on purpose, was like finding a diamond just laying on the sidewalk, if said diamond was yet another random inexplicable hangup about a random topic, or even word. Apparently drawing attention to himself was the hot button issue du jour, because his teammate abruptly turned red and slid down in his seat, as though he might try to escape by way of under the table.

Escape from what though? Being acknowledged for doing his job? Something that had made his team happy? Or at least Grif was happy. Wasn't that what Simmons always seemed to want?

“Uh, yeah I guess so.” Simmons stammered, “I-it's not like a big deal or anything. I just noticed that it would be more cost effective to send us... fresher things, it's far less expensive and it's good for morale. I mean there would be the issue of prep time, but with such a small enemy presence here, and the fact that the Blues have just been turtling since... ever, it seemed like an okay exchange. I mean, this _is_ much better than MREs... Right?” he shimmied in his seat a little, “I'm surprised they listened actually.”

If the years had taught Grif anything it was a certain degree of fluency in 'Simmons' and that right there all but screamed, ' _I bullshitted my whole argument and I cannot believe it worked. I am also probably omitting things to a certain degree as well!_ '

Well good for him! There was, of course, the question of exactly ' _why_?' because it wasn't like Simmons regularly made a habit of trying to convince Command to send them things. Maybe he was just finally lightening up? Unlikely sure, but in the end, it probably didn't matter.

Cause, you know, **WAFFLES**!!!

“Mmmhmph,” Grif mumbled around another mouthful of said waffles, “Well, whatever the reason, this sure as hell made my day! You should do this kind of shit more often, think of all the amazing food we could be having!”

Simmons turned redder, probably wasn't used to being praised, “O-oh, well, I-” he cleared his throat, “I suppose I could be persuaded to try convincing Command next time as well. Provided that some people helped out by doing more than just eating said food.”

Well... That was kind of weird... Like yeah, he'd expected Simmons to demand the dreaded 'work' in exchange, and poke fun at his eating habits, but that was oddly quick to give in... Maybe he really just was looking for an excuse to do this again?

As he was trying to decipher Simmons' bizarre thought processes, Donut plunked himself down across from them with a plate of his own.

“By the way Simmons, I almost forgot to thank you!”

Simmons almost choked on the waffle he'd been eating, much in the manner of someone who'd been looking for a reason not to have to keep talking, “Thank -” he coughed, “Thank me for what? For ordering the food?”

“Well, yes I suppose that too, but no I meant for fixing the waffle iron, that must have been you right?”

Grif raised an eyebrow, right, there was that, “Yeah it was you, wasn't it? Wasn't me or Donut, Lopez only fixes cars and if it was Sarge he'd have probably turned it into a bomb. So that leaves just you.”

The redhead fidgeted, “Well I mean, so what if it was?”

“I thought you said it couldn't be fixed? Back when I tried to get you to fix it before, you literally said it was 'dead and will never work again', you even tried to make me throw it out!”

Simmons poked at his remaining waffle with a fork, “Uh, well, I ah, I was mistaken... It would seem... I saw it while I was putting the food away and I thought maybe I should try one more time just for the sake of it, before finally throwing it away! Not to mention that we'd never had any kind of stuff to make waffles before so there was never any point to actually fix it!”

Grif glared, “You cheeky Dick, you just wanted waffles, didn't you!? I'm on to you!”

Simmons shoved the last of his meal in his mouth and slammed down his whole glass of OJ like he was chugging beer at a frat party, before shoving his chair back with a sharp _squeak_ across the floor.

“Thank you for breakfast Donut,” he said curtly, “it was very good!”

He then marched over to the sink and actually took the time to angrily rinse his dish off and set it inside with the others, in the most passive aggressive way possible, “You better hurry up Grif, you have patrol this morning, and I'm on look out so I'll see if you don't!” he said in parting before skulking out the door.

 

          Donut looked after him mournfully, “But you hardly ate anything...”

The now sullen blonde prodded at his food a little before abruptly looking up at Grif, who was in the process of licking syrup off his plate, a determined look on his face.

“Grif!”

“Hhuuuueeeeng?” The heavier man replied, mid lick.

“Go bring Simmons some more food. There's bunches of waffles still on the counter, so bring him at least two of them.”

“Why would I do that?” Grif asked, repeating his earlier process of facial syrup removal.

“Because you're the reason he left!” Donut countered, an irritated look on his face, it was oddly intimidating if only for how rare its appearance was, “He only ate two waffles! No one eats just two waffles! And besides, he deserved to have a nice breakfast just like everyone else, he's the whole reason we're even having it, and didn't you see his hand?!”

“What does that have to do with fucking anything?” His hands? Seriously? Simmons needed more waffles because hands? What kind of ass backward logic was this?

“ _Uuuuugh_! You didn't even notice? You're not being a very good friend Dexter,” Donut chided, “He's got **band-aids** on his hand, didn't you see?”

No, he had not seen, and what? Simmons pricked his finger or some shit, therefore Grif was now the bad guy? That had fuck all to do with anything! Not to mention Simmons was the one who got all pissy about nothing and left! He hadn't made him do anything!

Donut groaned and rolled his eyes like a character in a teen drama, “Oh come on! He's got band-aids on his fingers and the waffle iron works now? The one that he couldn't get to work before? And he's clearly tired, he didn't even tuck his shirt in all the way. He's all sloppy! You really have no idea what that could mean?”

Grif just stared at him, “Nope.”

Liar.

“Go. Bring. Simmons. Food.” Donut ordered, in a tone that was so eerily similar to the one he'd used to use when Kia was little that Grif immediately got to his feet, if only to get out of there and away from the weird as fuck feeling.

Petulantly, of course, he wasn't a savage.

He snagged two waffles off the top of the stack and wrapped them in a napkin and then grabbed three more in his other hand, popping one in his mouth as he skulked out the door.

 

          Stupid Simmons....

Stupid Simmons and his stupid busted hand...

Stupid Donut for noticing and then yelling at him about it. He wasn't Simmons' keeper! He didn't make him do any of this! And he wasn't an idiot, he fucking knew what it meant! It was obvious! Quite clearly all of this had been some kind of attempt at a kind gesture from Simmons, probably something to boost morale, or maybe he was missing real food and thought maybe it would make everyone else happy? Then the dumb ass stayed up way too late trying to fix the stupid waffle iron, and yeah it probably had been as busted as Simmons had originally claimed, and he'd clearly hurt himself at least once while doing it.

But so what?! **So what if he had?!** It wasn't fair that he should have to feel guilty for something Simmons had done on his own! That shit was fucked, okay?! He shouldn't feel like crap just because Simmons was overly sensitive and seemed to have an obsession with making himself unhappy. Like he deserved to be punished, for what Grif had no idea, but it was like it was for just existing.

So it wasn't cool to make him feel shitty about Simmons' hang ups. They were his problems, and no one could make him deal with them if he didn't want to. It wasn't Grif's job to fix it. Not like he even could...

Not like he didn't want to sometimes...

So it wasn't fair.

It really wasn't.

So he shouldn't have to do this.

But, fuck, he was going to, wasn't he?

Yeah. He was.

Cause he did feel bad, okay? _Happy?!_  He felt bad that he hadn't noticed, and, and... He kind of... Felt fucked up that Donut was the one who had. Like that wasn't how this was supposed to work, it churned around in his stomach, like the laws of physics suddenly didn't apply and the world was all wrong. Because it was, because, he was supposed to notice, he was the one who would get Simmons alone and find out how he'd messed himself up. That was just how it was supposed to work. He'd make a joke or comment about him being a butterfingers or something and then they'd start the traditional ritual of giving each other shit until it was acceptable and not weird to get Simmons to let him look and then patch him up properly if he'd done it wrong.

That was how it was supposed to be.

 

          Grif sighed, coming to a stop outside Simmons' door. If he was getting ready to stand watch then this was where he'd be.

One way to find out.

Without even bothering to knock he bumped the button for the door with his elbow and it slid right open. He marched in without batting an eye.

Time to right the Universe.

 

          “Hey! Don't you knock!”

Oh good, Simmons was in here.

Part way through getting dressed it seemed.

Grif leaned against the door frame and observed as his flustered teammate struggled to pull on the rest of the black suit that went under their armor.

He didn't look any thinner than usual, looked like he'd built his muscles back up from the last time he'd seen him in a similar situation, back when he hadn't been eating. That was good at least. Guy was all overly tall, lanky, but with some decent muscle definition, reminded him a bit of the acrobats he'd seen at his mother's circus when he'd been little before she'd gone, though he had a feeling it had more to do with Simmons' absurd height stretching him all out.

And yes for the viewers at home, the metal did go 'all the way down', in separated curves of overlapping metal over what was probably the same material as the under armor. The obvious place you'd look first was his head, with his artificial eye, all delicate overlapping iris plates and glowing red dot of a pupil, the fitted bits of metal that surrounded it and moved along his face, stopping somewhere in his hair. Then his neck, completely banded, pieces slightly overlapping just like any other part that needed to move, like some kind of weird necklace, choker, artifact, thing, you'd see in a museum.

On his front you could see a few plates curling over his freckled shoulder, probably making up the base that held his cybernetic arm in place. Other pieces curved around his side and stopped part way across his middle just before the 'Y' shaped scar that split him down the center, they started just under his left pectoral and went all the way down to disappear under his waistband, probably connecting with the plates that secured his leg.

They continued around his back, as did the aforementioned freckles, where one could see where the plates from the front were anchored. A long line of more oddly shaped pieces were bolted down the length of his spine. Probably to protect all the various techno crap plugged into it. It was the only part that didn't have any of the black material lining it, and Grif could see some rather nasty looking scars, like star bursts or tree branches peeking out in places, a clear giveaway of what must actually lie beneath the facade. Grand scheme of things the whole mess probably would have looked cool if it hadn't been assembled out of random bits of crap and the eerily convenient assortment of hardware they just so happened to have. Instead, it just looked painful...

Grif shook his head, stopping that train of observation in its tracks. Follow it too far and it would take him on a fun guilt trip. Besides, that's not what he was looking for, he was trying to confirm what Donut had said, if he came in just assuming, it would be bad. If he was wrong he looked like an idiot and like he was actively worrying about his teammate. If he was right without seeing, he'd look like he was actively worrying and a nervous wreck. No win.

So he paid close attention as Simmons frantically shoved his arm through his suit's sleeve, or tried to. Guess luck was on his side today, or at least this morning because you'd only miss his pained hiss of irritation and yanking his arm back out of the sleeve if you were screaming and facing a wall.

Ah, so there were band-aids on his fingers, looked like they were put on weird or were coming off and got caught on the inside of the suit. Bet that stung.

"What did you do?" Grif asked, trying to sound casual, "Shut your hand in a door or something ?"

Simmons glowered, fussing with the bandages, "It's not that bad. Just some minor electrical burns."

" _Minor?_ "

Simmons looked suitably embarrassed, "Yes _minor_. Very minor. Barely even hurts still."

"From fixing the waffle maker?"

"The waffle **iron** , yes."

Grif hummed, "Guess it was pretty busted then." he shrugged, "You didn't need to do that, no sense in putting in that much effort if you were gonna keep burning your fingers."

His teammate looked a little depressed at that, "Yeah but, then we couldn't have had waffles..."

"Meh," Grif shrugged again, "no big deal. Would have just had pancakes instead. They're practically the same thing. "

 

**_You take that right the fuck back this instant you lying son of a bitch!_ **

  
          Oh crap, nope, bad time to fib. Simmons looked even sadder now, he had that look that meant he was beating himself up, probably calling himself stupid.

Double crap. No way out now but to fess up, unless he wanted to weather an 'I hate myself' break down from Simmons, then he'd feel even worse because then it really would be his fault!

"Ah, who am I kidding? Waffles and pancakes are two totally different schools of amazing!" he began, a bit awkward at first but quickly gaining proper traction, as Simmons looked at him in surprise, "People assume that they're either the same thing or that you have to choose just one or the other. But that's just not true! It all depends on what you're putting on them! Both are equally great with just about anything but some things are just different." he gestured widely, "Waffles are ideal for holding things that might fall off, like if you're not a fan of escaped syrup? Waffle is your man! Want something that sucks up syrup like a sponge? Pancake! Won't loose sprinkles on a waffle no sir! Pancakes are perfect for spreadables, butter, frosting, jelly, peanut butter! And don't even get me started on desserts!"

Simmons laughed. Like not a mocking laugh, a genuine full body laugh. He should do that more often...

" _Haha_ \- I - _ha_ \- I-I get it!" he made an 'enough' gesture, "I didn't know you were that passionate about _waffles_."

"I am deadly serious about food Simmons."

"I see that!" good, he didn't look five minutes from breaking mirrors anymore, "What was that at the end there? Dare I ask?"

"Desserts?"

"Yeah."

"Oh man, do you not know?"

Well damn, he looked confused, he really didn't know.

"Dude! Okay, shit! No, pancakes dude? They're literally cake, tiny layers of cake you cook in a pan." he watched Simmons eyes slowly go wide again, yeah seemed super fucking obvious now didn't it? "You put frosting on that, stack a few of them, throw sprinkles on it, stab a candle in that thing. BOOM! Birthday pancake."

"And waffles?"

"Aww man, you don't even know! Piping hot right out of the cooker, big ass scoop of ice cream on that, another waffle on top? **GAAAH**!" he set upon his two remaining waffles, neglected until now, almost violently, before chucking the two wrapped in the napkin at Simmons' head.

His teammate caught them with a startled squeak, plopping into a sitting position on the edge of his bunk so as not to fall.

Pointing accusingly at the redhead Grif grunted out a garbled series of sounds around his food that were best interpenetrated as, " _ **EAT YOUR WAFFLES**!_ "

Simmons peered up at him almost fearfully, flushing scarlet when his stomach abruptly growled. In the most oddly self-conscious manner Grif had ever seen, he unwrapped the napkin and took a bite of the waffles like someone might eat a hamburger.

 

          Food gone and sick of standing, Grif took the few steps necessary to cross the room and take a seat next to Simmons.

"Let me see your hand." he said firmly, they'd performed their little ritual like they were supposed to, now it was safe to look at the other soldier's injuries.

When the hand in question was tentatively held up he gave it a critical look, "Got more band-aids?" not about to pull these off if there weren't more.

" _Mph_ \- ah um sorry." talking with his mouthful, "Yeah, I have a first aid kit under my bed in case of-"

" _Up-ba-bup!_ Relevant facts only." Grif scolded before bending down to retrieve the box. Once he had he popped it open and grabbed a handful of band-aids.

“Grif come on! That's way too many, you're making a mess!” Simmons whined.

“That doesn't sound like you eating waffles.” Was the stern reply.

Simmons's eyes went wide and he blushed again (though honestly at this point when was he not? At this point the guy was just different shades of embarassed) eyes returning to his lap and nibbling on his breakfast like some kind of weird rabbit, holding his hand up again at Grif's prompting.

Carefully the old bandages were removed, and Grif inspected the burns. He wasn't an expert in first aid by any means, but he knew some stuff, never certified, but he'd taken the course when he was little. He hadn't seen burns much either. Mostly himself from when he'd first started smoking and wasn't very handy with a lighter yet. These didn't look bad, at least didn't seem to be, no blisters or anything, no bleeding, just varying shades of pink and pale red. Mostly on his fingertips but there were a few in little angry jittery lines farther up, one actually curved over the top of the second knuckle of his index finger. Ouch. So Simmons had been telling the truth about that, they probably did only sting by now. Still, Grif couldn't help but feel a low irritation that he'd kept working even though he kept burning himself. Good grief.

Defiantly needed new band-aids though, without them the friction and pressure from the gloves, and kick back from the gun if he had to fire, would easily aggravate them and probably turn them into open wounds.

Shoot. He was forgetting something about burns.... What was it?

Oh shit, that was right! "Did you let these breath? Or did you put bandages on them right after?"

"Uh- I um," Simmons stammered, "I rinsed them in cold water when I was done working and... Then put bandages on them?"

Grif gave him a disapproving look.

"I... Wasn't supposed to do that was I?" the redhead fussed with the now empty napkin in his free hand, "Crap, I wasn't. I can't believe I forgot."

"Everyone forgets shit sometimes." Grif shrugged, starting in on the bandages, making sure they were secure but not too tight or overlapped weird, "Just means you gotta keep an eye on it. Might want to take these off when you come back in. They don't look really serious though so it's probably fine."

Simmons chuckled, "Look at you. You're a better medic than Doc."

Grif snorted, "I'd hesitate to call Doc any kind of medical anything. I'll take it though, better than 'Nurse Donut'."

"Oh god, no." his 'patient' shuddered before looking a little melancholy, "Thank you, for doing this. I'm sorry."

Grif knew better than to ask 'For what?' that was the gateway to a flood of self-targeting misery and he knew enough to know he was in no way able to help with that. However...

 

          "I wouldn't thank me yet. I could be doing this completely wrong for all you know. By dinner time your fingers might all fall off." he joked, "And then you'll be totally fucked because all you'll have left is terminator hand, and we all know Righty is your one true love!"

"Oh my god!" wow he could switch emotional gears on a fucking dime, couldn't he? "Grif! That's gross!"

"You're telling me! I'm the one who had to hear it!"

Simmons choked on the air, "Y- fuck, _what_?!" he spluttered, "You do not! The walls are concrete, they're like three feet thick! Not to mention I don't do... _**That**_."

"The walls here are like paper! Why must you lie dear sweet Simmons?" he raised a hand to his forehead dramatically, "Sarge would be so disappointed in you. Or maybe he wouldn't if he knew how often he stars in-" " **YOU LYING SACK OF ASS!** " Simmons cut him off with a shriek, snatching his pillow and whapping Grif over the head with it.

Grif burst out laughing, raising an arm to protect himself from the pillow related assault, forced to flop on his side, laughing too hard to remain upright, "Ack! No! Not the other woman!"

"S-stop it!" Simmons struggled against his own suddenly bubbling laughter, face a war between said laughter and failing anger, "Stop making me laugh! Accept your punishment!"

"No! Stop! Donut will hear you! He has ears like a bloodhound!"

He was rewarded with the pillow being dropped on his head, his giggling becoming muffled.

"That doesn't even make sense," Simmons said, slightly out of breath, trying to fight off his own laughs that still escaped on occasion.

"Yet, you know that it's completely true," Grif replied, heaving a large contented sigh.

"Are you going to get up?"

"Eh, might nap. I'm pretty comfy..."

 

          Simmons pillow smelled, well, like Simmons. Not in like a creepy way! He wasn't some weirdo who went around smelling people and waxing poetic about how a man in full armor roasting in the sun in a desert all day could somehow smell like trees and flowers, 'earth', and the _sea_.

Nah, it was more like just that general 'other person' sort of smell, the only thing that was particularity unique about it (he supposed, not like he made a habit of stealing Donut or Sarge's pillows) was that it smelled a bit like detergent, probably because Simmons washed it so often, and like the generic shampoo they were provided with, same reason just with hair.

So it was just that it wasn't an offensive pillow, you see?

Much nicer than his own. Not that his smelled bad or anything. It smelled like nothing really, in that it smelled like him so therefore smelled like 'nothing', save for food on occasion.

It was terribly flat however and Simmons' was so fluffy! An exemplary pillow, not to be ignored.

 

          "No," Simmons whined, "no napping. And not on my bed." he shoved Grif's shoulder, "Come on, I need to finish getting dressed, I can't do that with you here!"

Grif huffed when the pillow was snatched away and regarded his teammate with a raised eyebrow, "I thought it was the being mostly naked part you'd have a problem with. I didn't know my very presence made it hard for you to keep your clothes **on** ."

God that face never got old, like ever, listening to Simmons struggle for a counter to what he'd said was even better, his freckles had practically vanished, his face was so red! This asshole was a fucking gift, like for real.

"Alright, alright. Don't have an aneurysm. I'm going." Grif heaved himself off the bed with a grunt that was only 60% over dramatics. "I got waffles to eat anyway."

Was it just his imagination or did Simmons look equal parts pleased and disappointed?

"They are good waffles aren't they?" he said quietly and Grif couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't actually about that at all... But then what was it about?

"Best I've had in literally years, Dude."

Simmons beamed.

"Yeah."

They stood there awkwardly for a moment, Grif still struggling with this new atmosphere, was there something he was supposed to say? Or do? Or...? This was outside the scope of their normal dynamic and he still couldn't piece together the 'why?'.

"Yeeeeup... So umm... I'll go do that then." he paused at the door, "Be umm... Careful with your hand okay? Come find me later and we can check on it? Or whatever?"

With that he turned and hurried out the door, catching Simmons, "'Kay." as he did so, hoping he hadn't seen the blush that he could feel burning his face.

What was that all about?

 

**TBC**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That took much longer than I wanted to get done, I'm really doing too many things all at once (not to mention I joined the art side of the Reverse Big Bang, so I've made it even worse! 8D )
> 
> I love so many of these little moments in this one, like Sarge's reaction to Grif running, Grif replying mid plate lick, and Simmons' many awkward moments. If I'm not careful I'll start doodling them and then we'll all be sorry! X)
> 
> As always feedback is much appreciated! Let me know if you see any mistakes, inconsistencies, or thing I should have tagged! And if you have any ideas for things you think Simmons should give/do for Grif as a gift don't hesitate to share! I've already seen a bunch of neat prompts! ~ Much love, CC


	3. Drive by Birdy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gifts can sometimes be given unintentionally, but nature doesn't really care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is this 32 pages? o.o So much for chapter lengths being consistent! 
> 
> Possible warnings for this chapter include: Mild descriptions of dead animals, recounts of depressing childhood events, possible incorrect use of Hawaiian and Celtic words and traditions (I researched the best I could but as I am not a direct member of those cultures I could be wrong.)

 

          Living with Grif- well no not with, as in _with_ _with_. Not with as in the same room, same building yeah, and same team... Uh, but yeah. Living with Grif was like an on going game of hide-and-seek that not only were you unaware you were playing but had no real end and the seeker and the sought never switched places.

At least not that Simmons was aware of anyway. Of course he never actually actively tried to hide from Grif.

Avoid him maybe.

Not hide.

Not on purpose.

So he was kind of surprised that when his eyes were drawn to the top of the base from where he'd been down below, prepping the Warthog, he spotted a familiar orangy-y gold shape up top. Generally speaking, unless he dragged him up there kicking and screaming it was almost unheard of for Grif to be up on watch willingly. Or alone.

So then... Running through the logical reasons he would be up there...

Did someone bribe him? Not impossible but unlikely in this case. **He** hadn't bribed him. The only reason Donut would have wanted to bribe him would have been if it was to take his place, only Donut wasn't scheduled to be on watch today. Lopez wasn't even an eligible option. Lastly, there was Sarge, and Sarge wouldn't bribe Grif, not for anything not ever.

So bribery was a no.

Maybe someone threatened him? Slightly more likely, but probably not. He hadn't and had no real desire to. Again both Donut and Lopez had no reason to do it. Sarge could and did threaten Grif, with a worrisome amount of frequency. He didn't mean to sound disobedient, he wasn't trying to question authority just that... It was unsettling to see their CO point his firearm at a squad mate as often as he did. And more so that he was starting to see it as a regular event...  
Could you feel sickened by not feeling sickened when you thought you should be?

Um, but, the original point; it didn't matter if you threatened Grif, because even if he complied it wouldn't be for very long. Soon as your back was turned he'd slink away and find a good hiding place to nap in.

So no on the threatening too.

So... What other reason?

Hmm...

Well, there was one he could think of. Because one thing he knew about Grif-, or well, was pretty sure he knew, at least in theory? Grif had bad days.

No, that was too finite, he'd never gotten verbal confirmation and you couldn't present a fact about a person solely from observation. What if you were wrong?

Grif _seemed_ to have bad days. Yes, there, that was better. Times where he seemed not to be able, nor willing, to deal with people. Which might have been related in part to volume? Literal and figurative volume, too much interaction, too loud, too many demands for your attention.

He could relate. There were times when everything just felt like too much, even just talking to someone over something simple seemed impossible. If he were honest, it had been happening to himself more often since the surgery.

Was it the same for Grif? He could, again, only guess, but it seemed to fit.

Had to hand it to him though, his teammate's solution was rather ingenious. Where he, himself, might want to go hide away, usually in his room, Grif didn't. He did his job.

That was it.

Simple solution. No one bothered anyone on watch, that was basically asking to join them, and nobody wanted that. So if Grif was on watch, there was no need to hunt for him, no need to talk or yell at him.

Simmons felt a touch jealous actually. While he might be confident in his book smarts, Grif had fantastic problem-solving skills. He was a lot smarter than he let on. The redhead wished he could do that, maybe he'd be better at solving his and everyone else's problems?

Maybe then he could actually be _useful_?

  
He'd been trying to think of something else to do as thanks, for well, everything, and hadn't had much success.

The waffles had gone over well actually, as had the (hopefully now regular) supply of non-MRE foods. It had made Grif happy, like really happy, and had seemed like perhaps he had gotten it right on the first try!

...He should have known better. Expecting a perfect outcome was flawed thinking, you just set yourself up to make critical mistakes and critical failure.

Which had been the inevitable outcome. In his determination to make everything flawless, he'd tried to fix the waffle-iron and had, again, almost inevitably, burned his fingers. They weren't bad but Grif had noticed and had been very disappointed. He'd messed it up, and to make matters worse Grif had had to re-bandage his fingers because he hadn't put them on right (you try that one handed! Where your free hand is a glitchy robo one! You just try! ) and so now he owed him even more!

Simmons sighed, now he was just making himself feel worse than he already did... Not looking forward to going on patrol alone. Didn't really want to talk to anyone either though. Maybe he should look for Lopez? No, maybe not, he always seemed mad at him...

He looked back up at the top of the base.

Maybe...

  
          Simmons' ever creepily creepy left eye took note of Grif's shoulders tensing as soon as he heard his footsteps approaching, and then prompted him for likely the thousandth time with available connections in the network, and would he like to connect to the system in Grif's suit?

No.

Again.

At least he was used to seeing his own status all the time. They all had had the surgery that implanted that neural-mod chip in their skulls, let them operate the power armor without ripping themselves apart and gave them and the suit a constant readout of their status as well as access to some basic functions and tools, hands-free.

It was great in the field, once you got used to it, it was like a HUD in a video game. Gone as soon as you took your helmet off.

Not anymore though. While not a constant stylized overlay like the heads up the suit provided he'd still get bursts of information from his new cybernetic systems. All sorts of bizarre incidents from queries and prompts, to sudden information readouts of teammates, when he was near them sometimes. He was unsure if that was something he was getting by actively looking at them? If he had some sort of sensor system he didn't know about that was tracking surface information, or if he was somehow picking up information from the chips the others had?

Either way, he staunchly refused to pay attention to it and tried to ignore it. It was such an invasion of privacy. Not to mention really _creepy_.

The absolute worst though was when he randomly got combat stats, like chances of success via different methods and weapons. It made him feel sick.

Seeing a list of "[teammate name] status: Green" in his helmet was fine. Whatever the hell this thing wanted to do? Definite nope.

Though, the little stealthy notice that Grif's suit had pinged his suit, meaning his teammate had checked to see who was near by so he didn't have to turn and acknowledge whoever it was, and showed signs of relaxing once he knew it was him, did make him feel better.

At least he knew his presence wasn't completely unwanted.

He came to a stop a little ways away from Grif, clearing his throat after a few moments of awkward silence.

Grif grunted in reply.

“Ummm... Hey, Grif.”

“Hey.”

Oh goody, off to a great start, “So umm... I noticed you were up here, by yourself?”

Grif sighed, “Yeah, and?”

Get to the fucking point.

“Right, I uh, I was wondering... I mean.” fucking fuck, just ask, “I have to go on patrol.”

“Uh-huh...”

“And it's, well, not harder per say, to go alone, just that, when you-”

“Look, Simmons, dude, I appreciate... whatever you're trying to do.” Grif interrupted, sounding like he was trying really hard not to lose his temper, “But I **don't** need company, I **don't** need cheering up, and I _really_ don't feel like driving. Just go do your thing and-”

“Do you wanna ride shotgun?” Simmons blurted before Grif could finish his sentence, if he let him then he'd have heard he wanted to be alone and then he couldn't ask because he'd already know and... shit... Damn it that didn't even make sense! Why was this so hard? It wasn't like he was asking him to prom or something absurd like that, was asking for company seriously this difficult?

Yes. Yes, it was. Because that would mean admitting being lonely and that was a weakness people liked to exploit, he knew that and Grif knew that and everyone knew that so you didn't talk about it or ask unless you could think of a roundabout way to do so.

So there.

“Shotgun?” Grif sounded confused, “You mean you aren't trying to get me to drive?”

“No.” Simmons said sheepishly, “It's just better with two people... and I guess I didn't really feel like asking Donut or Lopez...” he coughed awkwardly.

Grif was quiet for a moment, and Simmons could almost see him doing the math. Because it wasn't like he didn't go out alone on patrol sometimes. True it was safer to go in pairs but it's wasn't like the canyon actually followed any sort of logical rules, so you were both safe and unsafe at all times out here. So there wasn't actually a point.

“You're going to drive?” his teammate finally asked, thankfully before Simmons cracked under the pressure and started apologizing.

“Yeah.”

“You're so slow though.”

“I'm not slow, I'm just careful. Not to mention I don't drive like a psycho.”

Grif snorted, “God, people would die of old age the way you drive or-" he paused, clarity breaking through the cloud of annoyance and into the mindset of figuring out what might be in it for him, “... or fall asleep... Yeah... I guess they would...” his helmet tilted a little as he regarded Simmons, who felt a bit like a specimen about to be dissected.

“Okay... Hold up. Plane English here. Just to be totally clear. You want _me_ ,” Grif pointed to himself, “to go with _you_ ,” he pointed to Simmons, who nodded, “in the _warthog_ , on _patrol_ ,” another nod, “but _not_ to drive?” nod, “and...the catch _is_?”

“Nothing!” Simmons spluttered, “There's no catch. You don't even have to talk to me or anything! I just... Don't really want to be around Donut or Lopez but I kind of... I mean today I'm just not...” good with people as if that wasn't obvious, his brain was made of pudding and he could not make words be things today, “So I kind of thought that you might want a genuine excuse to be... Not here?”

Did that make sense? Please come be anti-social with me? Because I'm having a shit day and the only other person who seems to get that is the other person having a shit day. Let's be shit together?

“Makes sense.” Grif started slowly, “I can see your logic... I think.” he made to head for the ramp then stopped, “And no one put you up to this? No Sarge trying to find a reason to flip his shit and not Donut thinking I need ' _cheering up_ ' right?”

“No, I mean, yes. Fuck. I mean no one asked me.” god could he just disappear? Just evaporate or something?

“Okay.”

“Huh?”

Grif walked past him, “I said I'll go with you.”

Oh thank god, he didn't have to shoot himself. Yet.

 

          It was weird, being the one driving, at least with Grif in the passenger's seat.

They'd set out only a few minutes ago after Simmons had asked several times if Grif had everything. Did he have ammo? Was he properly armed in case they actually were ambushed? Did he have his canteen? Did he-? Which turned into an avalanche of stuttered apologies when Grif threw his hands in the air and had stomped back towards the base, Simmons scampering after him with said 'I'm sorry!'s.

So here they were, driving along in total silence, which shouldn't have bothered him much, save that this wasn't the comfortable silence he'd wanted. Instead, Grif was sitting beside him, arms crossed, one leg crossed over the other and braced against the dashboard, and if the fiddling Simmons had seen him do with his helmet meant anything, he had his visor at max opacity. So he was probably napping.

Ah well, was what he deserved he supposed since he'd invited Grif along for purely selfish reasons after all. He almost wanted to turn the radio on to break the silence, but he didn't want to make things worse, plus he wasn't in the mood for music, especially not the same mariachi tune on an endless loop.

Guess he just had to take his medicine and put up with it.

He drove carefully up the steep not exactly a hill, but not sheer enough to be a ridge, thing, that would eventually lead up the cliffs, finally coming to a stop at the first checkpoint of his route.

Shifting into park, but not shutting it off he hopped out, moving to what he had determined to be the optimal vantage point, offering a wide unobscured view of this part of the canyon.

A visual sweep, first with just his eyes, then with the binocular zoom in the helmet, and finally a sweep with the thermal setting (because he was thorough god damn it!) that revealed nothing abnormal, no Blues, no nothing. Which was what he'd expected, especially so close to Red base, but if you just went around assuming things you'd make an ass of yourself, and you didn't impress anyone either, not superiors, or COs, or parents, or friends... or small children... or- better safe than sorry, and all that.

First stop checked off, he made his way back to the warthog and got back in the driver's seat. He spared a glance Grif's way, finding him to have not so much as twitched, probably asleep, before moving to shift back into drive. Before he could, however, he was startled by a rush of movement, a loud screech, and a tremendous **THUD** on the front of the vehicle.

  
          He froze. Pressed as far back in the driver's seat as he could be, instincts having demanded it. His pulse, or rather the thrum of whatever pump he had now, rushed in his ears like the sound of river rapids, his eyes locked forward.

Holy shit, oh holy shit! Don't move, don't move! Oh my god!

" _Holy shit..._ "

Huh, his thoughts were starting to sound like Grif... That was probably concerning...

No! Wait that was the com! So Grif was awake, and he could see it too! Wonderful! That meant he wasn't crazy! This was actually happening!

"Don't move." he said as softly as he could, "Don't fucking move. Holy shit..."

If Grif moved he was going to be so fucking mad because there, perched on top of the bar that supported the windscreen... was an eagle.

An honest to god fucking eagle!

Well, maybe it was a hawk? Alien hawk? Maybe this planet, ring world, whatever, had big ass hawks?

No no, that was an eagle, alien eagle, space eagle! It was huge! Like you think you know how big an eagle is? You are **WRONG**! This thing was massive, it looked like it could be the size of a small child, like a 2-year-old? But the wings, holy hell! Each one looked almost like they were longer than he was tall! Taller than Grif for sure. They weren't fully extended like they had been when it landed but were now almost draped around the vehicle as it used them to balance itself.

Christ, that was a potentially twelve-foot wing span! Or more! ... _Fuck_...

It was in shades of mostly brown, with gray and white, speckled and dappled like sunlight through trees- _and now he was waxing poetic_! Though maybe not completely because from a camouflage standpoint that's probably exactly what it was supposed to look like.

But could you blame him for being at least a little overwhelmed? It was right there! Less than a foot from him, he could reach out and touch it! And it was staring. Right. At. _Him_. With the most intensely golden eyes Simmons had ever seen in his life! The same color as their visors, as Grif's armor. It felt almost like it could see right through it and see him inside, trying to decide if he was going to be a problem or not.

Which had to be the primitive part of his brain, a holdover that remembered that humans were first and foremost prey animals, and that once upon a time they had been prey for birds like this, even bigger. It had to be that because this was silly. If it came down to brass tax he could totally take that bird, it couldn't get through his armor and one good punch from said high-tech suit would probably obliterate the poor thing.

So yeah, fuck you intimidating bird!

Said gigantically magnificent, former dinosaur seemed to decide that Simmons was actually just a momentarily noisy rock attached to this warm green rock, and turned its attention to the whole reason it had landed.

Wickedly curled and horrifically sharp talons dug little grooves into the metal of the Warthog where it hung on, one set of those claws, however, was more dedicated to clutching a brownish fluffy ball of...something.

He thought he saw a small paw kick ineffectually, it was a... Groundhog? Woodchuck? Maybe? Probably the latter, not enough trees, and too many rocks for the former.

Space woodchuck.

Attention now shifted, the Raptor clutched at the smaller creature, which gave a valiant thrash but made no sound.

_If the average large earth eagle has a 7-foot wing span and can generate over 750 psi a bird of double that span could potentially have near or over 3,000psi which is about the same as a barn owl which crushes its prey to death. It only takes 30 psi worth of pressure to shatter a human wrist._

He couldn't help but run through the facts, it raised so many fascinating ideas concerning this situation. Eagles didn't crush prey they pinned them and ate them or carried them away and ate them. If some earth eagles could take down deer and wild rams that meant this creature probably hunted things much larger and meaner, than anything around here, it probably lived far outside the canyon and had drifted in here looking for food. So, in the end, there was never a possibility of escape for Alien Space-chuck™.

  
          It would be really difficult to describe the feeling of watching this winged predator while it fed. It wasn't an especially long time, the creature was the product of eons of evolution and didn't waste energy being fussy while it ate. But if Simmons were to try and articulate those moments he'd say... Well, it was a number of things, some a bit conflicting. There was an underlying feeling of pity for the now quite dead prey, at least he hoped it was dead, and a feeling of unease at seeing it torn apart and devoured with absolutely no emotional involvement from the eagle.

For the Chuck, being a meal was inevitable and Simmons didn't really know how to feel about that. Should he feel something, was it okay not to? Was that shock or was he a terrible person? Or did he just _get_ this whole thing on a fundamental, unconscious, primitive level? There was nothing he could do for what had been caught, even if he could, should he? The eagle didn't kill it out of malice, it did it to eat, if he chased it away then it would either starve or simply catch something else, and its meal would probably die anyway. So it was a waste.

Simmons had never been good at the whole ' _hunting_ ' thing, his uncle, at his father's request, had tried taking him deer hunting when he was younger, it hadn't ended well... Somehow though, now, in this war, the idea of having to kill a person (though he'd yet to do it) seemed easier somehow, which wasn't saying much, because in that situation he and the enemy soldier would both be the hunter and the prey at the same time, it wouldn't be killing something that meant him no harm, but instead someone also actively trying to kill him, and either he would win or they would win. And that would be that.

Sometimes you won, sometimes you didn't. Life was just a sequence of wins and losses you could walk away from until you couldn't. Any day you woke up again was a win?

Seemed clinical somehow. Separate from the real world.

  
          Which led to the opposing side of this unbalanced emotional coin. This bird did not give a **_fuck_** , not about them, not about their silly war, it only cared about food, and surviving to have babies. Or whatever it was eagles cared about. It was an astounding animal in every sense, this close he could see the fine fibers that made up every feather, the imperfect chips and cracks in ebony talons that through the sheer sharpness and pounds per square inch they possessed were leaving likely permanent gouges in this marvel of human engineering that it would probably tell to kiss it's ass if it could. He could see the smears of blood on its golden beak whenever it lifted its head, cocking it in fluid twitches and twists to check for potential danger, flinging drops to fall and probably splatter in his or Grif's lap and across the dash. He could see the sheer power of the muscles in its wings every time it flexed or shifted to keep its balance, moving under layers of silken down.

It really was awe inspiring. There was no other way to say it. It had him waxing poetic again! Philosophizing about his place in the universe with metaphors about mortality versus woodchuck!

Above everything else, drowning out even his most depressing thoughts on the matter, was that almost overwhelming, ecstatic, sense of joy, he felt like a kid who'd been given exactly what he'd wanted for his birthday. This was something so few humans had ever, **ever** , seen in person, and the ones who's seen it this close? You could probably count them on both hands. And the only reason they could now was because of this military grade power armor that the eagle didn't register as a living thing unless they moved.

  
         All he could hear the sound of his and Grif's labored breaths, competing with the blood still rushing his ears, somehow sounding much louder now that they were being as quiet as possible. With the com active it was like Grif wasn't just a seat away. It was like he was right here, like not even in a directly next to him sort of way, but like occupying the same space he did sort of way, an impossible sort of way. It only added to the near out of body feeling he was having, a dizzying result of the bio chemical cocktail his brain was flooding his neural pathways with, triggering paralysis by way of fear, euphoria by way of awe. Thinking a mile a minute, and yet not at all.

Thousands of years of evolution, countless pointless wars and bloodshed and misery, all the fucked up moments in his life, the unfair ones in Grif's, had all come together and added up to create this singularly perfect moment. Through the laws of causality, it could not have happened any other way.

And he was fucking thrilled.

  
So yeah, if he were to try and recount it? He'd probably only be able to say, "You had to be there."

  
          Almost as suddenly as it had begun it was over. Finished with its meal the eagle raised its wings, turning about on its perch with an almost lumbering swaying gate, hunching down, wings high, tail feathers wiggled and fanned, before it took a lunging leap from the top of the warthog, giving a few mighty flaps to clear the distance from the vehicle to the cliff edge, where it then plunged out of view only to return moments later, wings outspread and carrying it up on the thermals the canyon created. Unknowing or uncaring of the two humans it was leaving behind, who's primitive ancestors had shit themselves in terror when the earth's own titanic ones had flown overhead, who should be thankful for the opportunity to watch it eat a simple meal and part without shitting on the hood of their car.

Fuck you all, have a wonderful day.

  
          The ensuing silence that followed was interrupted only by the sticky squeaking _squelch_ of what remained of the carcass sliding down the windshield, leaving a long red smear that someone would eventually have to deal with.

"Oh my god..."

" _Oh my god_!"

That was one of them. Or both of them? Yeah probably. They were a flurry of movement and sound, an attempt to articulate everything they honestly could not.

"Holy shit!" "Did you see that!?" "It was just-" "It was right _there_! "Did you see the size!? "It was huge!" "it was just staring at you!" "oh my god!" "it was-" "I know!" "and we were all-" "I know!" "and then- it - holy shit man!" " **I know!** "

Grif leaned towards Simmons in his seat and grabbed hold of his upper arms, "That was the coolest fucking thing **EVER**!" and it absolutely fucking was! Jesus, was Grif shaking? He was pretty sure he was, little hard to tell because _he_ certainly was.

God, he wished, damn it, he wished he'd- there was a sudden ' _ping_ ' that he more felt than heard as his suit's systems cheerfully informed him that the video file he had requested had been saved to its internal systems successfully.

Grif quieted abruptly when he suddenly stiffened, peering up at him, helm tilted in question.

"Oh my god..." Simmons said softly, "Grif..."

"What?" his teammate sounded worried, "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I recorded it..."

Were it not for the visor in the way he'd have seen the confused series of blinks he got in reply.

"I got it! The whole thing! On video! My suit just said it saved it!"

" **HOW!?** " the orange soldier shrieked in delight.

" **I DON'T KNOW!** " Simmons shrieked back, "I think it-! I mean I was thinking how cool it would be if-! Fuck man! I don't know!" he'd panic about whatever weird ass cyborg bullshit that was later because right now this was the coolest shit! Oh god, he hoped it was the whole thing!

Grif's helmet _thunked_ against his shoulder as the other man dissolved into a fit of giggles, which turned out to be highly contagious.

"Oh my god, fucking- what are the odds? Like fucking for real, man!"

"I don't know, probably insanely low. Like this is never happening again, not as long as we live."

"Christ..."

"We've become very religious in the last 5 minutes," Simmons observed, which made Grif laugh harder before he eventually let go and flopped back into the passenger's seat.

"Holy shit, I feel like I need a cigarette..." the larger man sighed with a softer laugh.

Simmons' face burned even as he choked on his own previous laugh and began a new one, "Just that good, huh?"

"Absolutely! "

The redhead chuckled, flopping back in his own seat, closing his eyes for a moment and taking a few deep breaths to calm himself and to enjoy the natural high of endorphins and adrenaline thrumming around in his veins.

Not for too long though, if he wasn't careful his body would take that as its cue to crash and he'd fall asleep. As good an idea as that might sound to certain members of their little recon party (ie Grif) there were more pressing issues.

He sighed, "Grif?"

"Hmm?"

"What do we do? About the um..." he gestured to the carcass on the hood of the warthog.

"Ah," Grif hummed, "well... I don't know, hold on, let me think."

Simmons watched the other man hop out of the warthog before following suit and walking around to the front to meet him.

  
          It should have been obvious what to do with the mess, but far as he saw there were only two options, deal with it or make someone else deal with it. Dealing with it involved touching it, making someone back at base do it would involve leaving the remains there until they got back... Both were not good options in his opinion.

He looked over what was left, maybe the answer would somehow present itself to him... It wouldn't, but he could hope.

Unfortunately, while not much of the animal remained that didn't mean what was left was small, proportionately speaking. Yeah still couldn't identify it... Just some big brown tailless rodent. All that was left was just some fur, bones, and whatever bloody mess the eagle had decided not to eat.

It looked like someone had hidden a grenade inside a gerbil the size of a corgi hopped up on steroids. Which was, understandably, a metaphor he hadn't ever thought he'd need to use... But it was still apt!

"Damn..." Grif breathed, "Looks like this thing got blown up instead of just being eaten..."

_I know right?_

  
          For just a moment Grif looked a bit uneasy, something in the way he held himself? It was brief but Simmons still took notice. Was Grif grossed out by this? It was disgusting for sure but that wasn't something he'd expected to get to Grif. The only thing it brought to mind in terms of things he knew about him was... Should he mention it? Ask? Well, Grif seemed to have shaken it off now, so probably best not to say anything. The window was closed and had probably been too small, to begin with.

"Okay," Grif suddenly declared, "Seems to me we have three choices!"

Simmons blinked, "Three?" what was option three?

"Yeah. Depends entirely on how bad you feel about this... Gopher?" woodchuck, "If you feel bad we can bury it, if you don't care we can just toss it on the ground out of the way, and if you really don't care... We could always throw it at the Blues."

Simmons sputtered, "Throw it at the Blues?!"

Grif snorted, "I wasn't being serious dude, not really. I mean I guess we could if you really wanted to, psychological warfare and shit, Sarge would approve. But up to me, nah, been there done that."

"What? When? Why!?" Simmons spluttered, what the hell?

Grif waved him off, "Jesus when I was like 8 dude. It wasn't fucking yesterday."

Oh, good, not recently, young enough to have been impulsive, okay. But...

“Uh... okay. Let's go with option two. Let's just get it off the windshield and like over by a rock. It's where it would have ended up anyway if we weren't here so that's probably best. That way we don't mess up the natural cycle by burying it and we don't desecrate it by throwing it at people.”

“Nerd,” Grif grumbled, almost like he was offended, but why would he be? He was the one who'd admitted to throwing dead animals at people! It was gross! Not to mention **he** was the one who brought it up in the first place!

Ugh! Don't get distracted! They had to find a way to get this thing off...

Simmons made a visual sweep of the immediate area, counting his blessings when he spotted a sizable stick, “Oh thank fuck!” He cheered while he picked it up, “I don't know about you but I wasn't going to pick that up, not even with gloves on.”

Grif didn't answer, instead he made a sweeping 'after you' gesture at the carcass, Simmons sighed, of course, couldn't have hoped for a helping hand, could he? Whatever, he was still in a biochemically induced state of pep, even this wasn't going to put a damper on it.

Several prods and a scoop and flick that came with just the most entertainingly gross _shlup_ -ing sound and the poor animal was laid to rest in the dirt and prodded and poked over to a nearby rock. Ashes to ashes and hail to whatever, full of something I guess, please don't let this come back as a zombie, put a wafer on it, amen.

  
          "What happened? Dare I ask?" Simmons asked casually once they were back on the 'road'. Play it cool, like it was anything else to make a snide remark about. Gotta give Grif the opportunity to shoot him down without making it seem like he was genuinely curious, save them both some face. Besides, this had the potential to be something serious, his teammate didn't talk about home very often. Of course, Simmons didn't either so it evened out. Still though...

“What happened with the what now?” His teammate replied from his place in the passenger's seat.

“With the animal tossing.”

Grif gave a lopsided shrug, "It was just the one time. Nothing to say really, some asshole said some shit. Standard issue trash kid, you know?"

Simmons nodded, he had met several, “Yeah, but. Why? I mean it must have been pretty bad if that was how you dealt with it.”

Grif hummed,"Eh, it was more to do with the fact that we were at school when he said it, so I couldn't do anything, and it wasn't like the teachers gave a shit. There's no way you didn't get that stupid, ' _shake and say sorry, now you're magically friends!_ ' crap.”  
True, he had. Pretty confusing message to give kids. Gave them the idea they could get away with anything so long as they said sorry. That you were the bad guy if you didn't accept it. Was fucking stupid.  
“So by the end of the day,” Grif continued, “I was fucking pissed. It wasn't like I was planning it or anything, it just kind of happened. On the walk home I saw like I think it was a chicken? Had a lot of feathers, might have been a gull? I wasn't sure, but there's a lot of chickens on the islands just running around so it's kind of inevitable that one gets hit. But like, fuck I don't even know what I was thinking, I just saw it and it was like it clicked, I grabbed that thing with my bare hands and I ran the whole way to his house. Fucking kicked the door until he answered."

Simmons shifted gears as they climbed higher up the cliff, grimacing inside his helmet. He could relate a bit to what Grif had said, about being upset, so much so that you just sort of did things without thinking. It had happened so often when he was little. He'd reigned it in a lot better as an adult, but every once and a while... It was embarrassing to think about.

Grif tilted his head back and looked up at the sky as they went, "God it was so long ago. It's so weird you know? The way memory works? Whole chunks of this story I can't remember, like the kid's name or his face, but I do remember weird details, man. Like... he was wearing an Iron Man shirt, his mom was in the doorway to the kitchen, and the TV was on..." he suddenly started laughing, "And like, right when he says 'what do you want?' or whatever, I fucking whipped that goddamn dead as fuck bird right in his face! Just _BAM_ and he's on his ass! And it's so gross and he's crying and his mom is yelling, and I'm just screaming, 'Who's the piece of shit now, fucking haole ass, shark bait, bitch!', like I was so mad that _THAT_ is what I pulled out of my ass. It barely even makes sense!"

"Howl-e?" Simmons asked without thinking, shit he should've kept his big mouth shut, now Grif was going to realize how much he'd shared and probably clam right up.

"Oh, uh..." instead of dismissing the entire conversation, Grif surprised him by replying, almost like someone who'd gotten caught doing something wrong and had to explain themselves, "Well, a haole is umm." he gestured with his hand trying to pull the right meaning from the ether, "It's a... _Tourist_?" he offered in a voice that indicated that this was not the whole truth but he was hoping Simmons might buy it.

"A tourist? You called him a tourist?" Simmons replied flatly.

Grif shifted awkwardly, "Yeah, a tourist... Usually, a uh... _white one_...?"

Ah.

"So it's a slur?"

"No! No no no!" Grif squeaked in a mild panic, "I know how it sounds. But it's not, I swear! That's not what it means at all! It's just a statement of fact!"

"But you used it like an insult?"

"Yeah... Fuck man come on! I was a stupid kid, I got punished like two decades ago seriously! My mom fucking tanned my ass!" Grif whined.

Simmons chuckled, "Jesus Christ! Okay, okay, I believe you man. And I don't care what you said when you were a kid. We all suck when we're little."

Grif sighed in relief, “Oh good. No, like- fuck.” he squirmed uncomfortably, seemed they'd wandered into the ' _this is the important shit that might have feelings in it_ ' zone™, and there wasn't a way out that didn't involve some kind of explanation, “I didn't want you to think that this was some kind of like race thing, cause when you go to Hawaii you're going to hear 'haole' and 'shark bait', like all the time. They're not insults, no one is mad at you for being there. **_I_** made them into an insult because I was being a shitty kid and I couldn't just ignore that asshole...”

Simmons wanted so badly to comment on the ' _when_ ' part of that sentence but decided not to test the patience of whatever nostalgia based blessing the eagle had bestowed.

“Well.... I mean, I guess I can't blame you.” He shrugged, “I think everyone does things they aren't proud of when they're little. And it's like, I think when you're that small and you get that angry you can't stop yourself from doing something. Even if you know you'll regret it later.”

“Don't go saying shit like that man, that's too sappy. I was just a shitty kid.”

Simmons smiled, “Well I guess, but if it's any consolation I think that was pretty bad ass of eight-year-old you if a touch psychotic.”

Grif snorted, “Whatever you say.” He reached over lazily and flicked Simmons' shoulder, “Okay. Your turn.”

The warthog jerked slightly via a combination of Simmons hitting the breaks and forcibly correcting a sudden turn to the right, which brought them dangerously close to the edge of the cliff.

"My turn?" he blanched, "My turn to what?"

"Tell an embarrassing story." was the matter of fact reply, "I told one. So now you have to. That's the rules, you'll upset the balance of the universe if you don't.”

Ah, ' _the rules_ ', yeah okay, he got it loud and clear. Each of these stories was potential blackmail, potential ammunition for a squabble or argument. The only way to guarantee they wouldn't be brought up was for there to be an equally embarrassing one on the other side. Mutually assured destruction.

"Well?" Grif asked impatiently as Simmons righted their course, going at a slightly slower pace as he pondered.

"Give me a sec," the redhead murmured, tapping a thumb restlessly against the steering wheel, "I'm trying to think of an equivalent." preferably something along a similar theme, roughly similar at least, that helped ensure a comparable level of embarrassment, so things were equal. He had a lot of embarrassing stories, that was basically what his life was made of really. Which one though?

Oh! Yeah this might do it, didn't involve dead animals but it might be the same level.

  
          "Okay, so, word for a word." Simmons began, "You remember that I'm Dutch Irish right?"

The resulting sound from Grif sounded like confirmation, probably came with a nod but he wasn't going to take his eyes off the 'road' to check.

"Well, the Irish part is on, my mom's side-"

"Not your dad's?" Grif interrupted, sounding confused.

"Does 'Simmons' sound like an Irish last name to you?"

"Dude I don't know."

Simmons snorted a laugh, "Good rule of thumb if it's preceded by a prefix; 'O' or 'Mac', or 'Ní' or 'Nic', then it's probably Irish."

"That's an awful lot of shit to put in front of your name."

"Nah, it's not hard if you hear it a few times. 'O' and 'Mac' are for men, 'O' means 'Grandson of', 'Mac' is 'Son of'. So if my father was Irish and traditional I'd be Mac' Simmons. If I was a woman it'd be a little more complicated, 'Ní' is 'daughter of the grandson of' and 'Nic' is 'daughter of the son of', and if your last name starts with a 'C' or 'G' it's always 'Nic', so..." he pondered, "I'd probably be Nic' Simmons, at least until I got married. If he was Irish I could take his last name if I wanted and my prefix would change depending on what his was. If it was 'O' I'd be 'Uí' and if it was 'Mac' I'd be 'Mhic', both mean the same as the husband's prefix just with 'wife of' in front, and 'Mhic' has the same letter rules as 'Nic'."

He spared a quick glance to the side and realized Grif was staring right at him. Oh dear, here comes the self-consciousness...

"I-I umm-"

"Dude I think my brain just broke! What kind of crazy ass system is that!? Especially for the girls, holy shit!"

"Hey! It's not like that's the only culture that does it! There are plenty of-"

"Wait! Do you like, string them together? Go all the way down the family line so it takes ten minutes to say your name?"

"I-" Simmons blinked, he swore he'd felt his brain do a hard reboot at the whiplash from that question, "I don't know... I don't think so?"

He was rewarded with a drawn out disappointed, 'Aww' from his right, "I was hoping that was what your story was about..." his teammate mock sulked.

"Actually it, uh, didn't have anything to do with my story. Just kind of got carried away." Simmons admitted, pulling up to his next planned checkpoint, parking and hopping out to do the same surveying as before. "I was going to ask what you knew about the Irish people."

"Well, now I know they like to put all kinds of weird shit in front of their last names."

"Besides that."

"Their mortal enemy is the potato?"

" _Careful_..." Simmons warned.

Grif chuckled, "Aww don't be like that, I didn't say booze." he paused, "It's not booze is it?"

"No." Simmons rolled his eyes, "It's parties. The Irish culture is super into socializing. All different kinds, all different amounts, they have special terms for just about everything, from just two friends catching up to the whole town getting together. They've got like... 20 words for all the different kinds of parties, including one that starts at one house and travels down the block."

"Seriously!?" Sounded like that had caught Grif's attention, "What word is that!?"

"I ah... Don't remember that one," Simmons admitted, "one of my uncles told me a long time ago but I forgot."

"Boooooo!"

"Hush. The one I do remember is called a Ceilidh."

"Kay-lee?" Grif tried out the word, "Sounds like a party girl!"

Simmons laughed, "It's not spelled like that, there's a 'd' in it."

"That's what she said."

"That's what Tucker said," he playfully countered.

“Oooh, touche!”

“Okay so, the thing to remember about a ceilidh is that it's sort of a big deal. At least that's how my Aunt explained it. It's used a bit like just a general term for a party now, but a long time ago it was sort of the be all end all.” Simmons continued as he surveyed the area, looked like there was some change since last time. Seemed someone had been setting off grenades... Probably just the Blues fucking around but you never knew. He took some pictures via his helmet cam to review later, make sure there wasn't significant structural damage.

“It's a bit like a block party I guess? Best thing to compare it to. It's generally centered around one person's house but basically everyone is invited, usually the hosts family plus their friends, and the neighbors and the neighbors' family and friends. From what I understand some of them could be huge, involving the whole town, it was _the_ thing to do in the days before electricity. Big night of food and traditional music.” He stretched a little as he made his way back towards the car, hopefully sans super eagle this time, “But the thing that made it super important was that for a lot of people it served a much greater purpose than just a good time.”

“And that would be what?” Grif asked as Simmons hopped back into the driver's seat.

Ah blessed dramatic timing, this couldn't be more perfect.

“Matchmaking.”

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

“ _NO_!”

There it was.

Grif sat bolt upright in his seat, “No fucking way! I can see where this is going! How old were you!?”

“Knew you had some reasoning skills in there somewhere” Simmons teased, “and in keeping with our theme, I was nine.”

“So like what? How did this happen?”

“Family reunion, well sort of. We went on vacation to Ireland to visit my mom's side of the family. Not all of them are there obviously but a lot of them are. It was kind of the only time I'd get to see them. So I think the choice to turn the reunion into a Ceilidh was for the benefit of the kids of the families that lived far away. Preserve part of the culture, you know?”

Grif nodded, “I can see that. Happened on the island sometimes. Sporadic cultural events just sort of cuz? Like, I don't know, trying to keep them from dying out? Trying to get the kids to give a shit about where they're from but they're too young to really understand it as anything more than a game or a chore?... Eh, I don't know where I was going with that, but I get what you mean.”

“No I see it, I think that's what it is exactly.” It wasn't like he and Grif never agreed on anything, oddly enough they usually did more than they disagreed, but moments like this where they just kind of clicked together? Where it was clear they were from completely different places but somehow that in itself meant they totally got what the other person was trying to say? Simmons had to admit that he kind of really liked that...

He cleared his throat after a moment or two of silence, getting himself back on task and them back on the road again, about a quarter of the way done, they were making surprisingly good time.

“So for some reason, some of my relatives thought that the 'matchmaking' part of the tradition should be more literal and not just like 'meeting someone at a club' kind of thing. At least when it came to me? I guess someone thought that if I had like, I don't know if I met a nice girl or something I'd be... less like how I was? I don't know. But they kept sort of pushing me at this girl, I distinctly remember her name was Emily. I remember thinking her hair was weird, cause she was blonde, and it was in perfect ringlets. You know those creepy antique porcelain dolls? She looked like that. It was so weird, she didn't even seem real. She even had a little blue dress with ruffles on it!” he groaned, “Every few minutes they'd send her after me, to like, play a game, or try to get us to dance together, they even sat us next to each other when we got food. I'm sure she didn't like me, or wouldn't really if she _actually_ knew me. But I guess she was one of those kids that get it in their heads that they need to find their prince or princess by like age ten or it's all over, because after a little while they didn't need to push her my way. It was like...”

He half gestured with a hand, can't take it off the wheel too long, ten and two, ten and two, Jesus, you want to crash!? “It was like... if she were you, and I was the last slice of pie.”

Grif hummed, “I should take offense to that because I can't help but think it was at my expense. But you're not even wrong. I'm like a lion on a wounded gazelle!”

“Oh god, please don't phrase it that way. I already regret the comparison!” despite his words he found himself laughing, in all honesty, it probably wouldn't, be so bad to be chased, provided it was someone worth getting chased by.

"But no I'm serious! She started following me around and giving me... I guess you'd call them lectures? How everything I was doing was wrong but don't worry, she'd make a proper husband out of me." he shuddered, Grif seemed to share the sentiment if the singsonged " _craaaaaaaa-zyyyyyyy_ " was anything to go by. "I tried everything I could think of to ditch her, my cousin Sarah even tried to help, but I don't think Emily liked girls... So now that we've had a proper setup, we're at the part I'm sure you've been waiting for."

"The part where you fucked it up?"

"The part where I fucked it up."

The part where he'd fucked it up.

  
          "I was trying to get away by going inside but she saw me and caught me when I was going up this set of stone steps that kind of wound the way up to the front door. She grabbed my arm when I wouldn't go with her and tried to pull me back to the party. I don't remember what she was saying, more of the same probably, I distinctly remember how I felt though, I was terrified but I was also just... So _mad_. So I just started yelling, for her to let me go, and how much I hated her, shit like that. And when she still wouldn't I uh... I panicked... And I kicked her."

Grif hissed sharply, already putting the pieces together, "And she fell?"

"Oh yeah. In retrospect, it probably wasn't as far as it looked, but it wasn't like two steps. It was like everything was in slow motion, she kind of twisted around trying to catch herself on her hands I guess? Fuck the sound she made when she landed, she landed face first on a slab."

"Oh damn. How bad was it?"

Simmons drummed his fingers guiltily on the steering wheel, gripping and releasing intermittently, trying to expend some of this nervous energy, "Scraped up her hands and knees pretty good, bunch of bruises too I'd imagine. The worst part of it was she knocked out, I think three, of her front teeth and ended up with a concussion." the leather of the steering wheel groaned under his hands, "I got in a lot of trouble, I don't think there was a single adult that didn't yell at me. Spent the rest of the party sitting in the living room..." he smiled sadly, "Sarah snuck me a piece of cake, but I didn't eat it."

There were a good few moments of silence, enough that Simmons was beginning to think that maybe he should have shared something else instead. Before he could stammer out an apology though Grif finally spoke.

"Well fuck them. You should have eaten that cake, you deserved it." he heard his teammate shift around in his seat, "Look, I get it, kicking another kid down the stairs isn't something to be proud of. But you fucking know, none of this shit would have happened if any of the adults had helped. It's their fucking fault in the first place!"

"Maybe, but I-"

"But nothing! Fuck that stupid kid, she deserved a good swift kick!" Grif insisted. "Seriously, harassment is serious bullshit I don't care who does it, it's fucking wrong."

Yeah, maybe, but... But if he'd just been better. If he'd've just put up with it... If...

He felt a tap on his shoulder again, gentle this time so as not to startle or distract from driving.

"Seriously man, you didn't do anything wrong. It was an accident."

Simmons let out a soft sigh, more a sound of relief than of stress, "Okay."

  
          The silence returned after that, a comfortable one this time, and it didn't break again until they pulled up to their next stop, the entrance to the cave system, sloping back and down into the earth like some kind of massive serpent.

Ick.

"...uh, we're not going in there are we?" Grif asked cautiously, voice cracking ever so slightly as he sat a little stiffer in his seat.

"No," Simmons quickly reassured him, "Just the entrance. I'm checking to see if anyone has been inside recently." hopping out, he walked in a wide arc along the length of the cave mouth, eyes scanning for signs others had been there. "It's not really a good strategic location, but there's plenty you could use it for if you wanted to. Like if you wanted to hide something. The canyon isn't exactly ideal for keeping things out of sight."

Hmm... Someone had been here, not recently, but multiple times since he'd last patrolled. There were no footprints but there was a faint path beginning to form. Probably just one person, the path wasn't very wide. Could've been if they were single file maybe? The Blues weren't anywhere near that organized. Yeah, likely just one.

Maybe Doc?

Hmm... Should he check now? No, this trail hadn't been used recently so it was extremely unlikely it was being used for nefarious purposes. Most likely this was just someone's favored path while on patrol.

If it was more recent the next time he was here then he'd check it out. If he found anything he'd call for back up.

Satisfied, the maroon soldier returned to his companion, who visibly relaxed when he got back in the Warthog.

"Anything fun?"

"Not really. Someone has been going in, but not recent enough to matter."

"Aw, no secret reinforcements, doomsday devices, or buried treasure? "

"Not a one."

"Well, I guess that's too bad." with that, Grif hunkered down once again, this time quite clear that he intended to take a nap.

That was fine. It was what Simmons had been sort of hoping for when he'd extended the offer in the first place.

The unexpected appearance of the eagle had been thrilling, and the exchange of stories had been strangely uplifting, but this was what he'd wanted. Was kind of backward wasn't it? You expected the quiet drive to be first, then probably the stories, sprinkled here and there, and the raptor encounter at the end. A build up to the high energy moment. They'd gone and done the narrative in reverse, the climax first, and a wind down instead of up. It should have been awkward. But it wasn't.

Even if he hadn't enjoyed them, though he absolutely had, Simmons would still have been grateful. The tension had all been shaken out and only the calm was left.

The low rumble of the engine, the rhythmic crunch of gravel, dirt, or rough dry grass under the tires. The whip and periodic whistle of the air rushing by. The occasional shift of breath or snore from Grif napping in the seat next to him. Even the normally oppressive sun seemed softer somehow, scattering in the occasional shadow of the cliffs, or the rare lone, sad, stubbornly living leafless tree.

It was surprisingly soothing.

  
          The next three stops didn't turn up anything interesting, no changes, no sign anyone else had been up there but him.

They were moving increasingly higher along the edge of the canyon if it wasn't such a shit hole the view would have been spectacular.

The next stop was almost halfway around the canyon, well within Blue territory. He'd have been more worried about driving around so close to Blue base, hell they were going right around it, this was a full patrol, after all, a perimeter sweep of the entire canyon, but he wasn't.

As long as he didn't run into that crazy freelancer or do something to get shot at by their tank there wasn't anything to freak out about.

Besides, this spot was an interesting one.

Parking far enough away from the edge that they wouldn't be seen by anyone below, and stay unseen by anyone who came up, he killed the engine. He shook Grif's shoulder on his way by, offering up an, "I'll be right back, 5 minutes tops." to which he received a sleepy, "m'kay...", here's hoping that he really had heard him. It wouldn't be even remotely good if Grif were found while he was gone.

Carefully the redhead snuck around the various large slabs of copper colored stone, and sun baked clay that was scattered here and there. Ah, there it was! The interesting spot, looked like it was clear too. Not a soul in sight!

It was another platform of rock, almost indistinguishable from the others, nothing, in particular, to define it from the others around it. But this one, he knew, was special. Well, not in so much that the rock any unique properties, it really was exactly the same as the other rocks. It was special in that this was someone else's secret spot.

Whoever it was hadn't made any sort of effort to hide it, he hadn't even discovered it by accident, it was glaringly obvious. Scattered junk food wrappers, mostly chips, occasionally a candy bar, a literal pile of empty beer cans of various sorts, some crushed some not.

One might have assumed from the description that it was Grif's, but that was wrong for two reasons. First, getting all the way over and up here from Red base was almost an hour on foot, and they'd know if Grif took the Warthog or a Puma, and there was no way that Grif would go all the way up here on foot. Two, and most importantly, Grif's secret spots were clean. Like spotless. It was the one time Grif would clean up after himself. Very likely because it kept his spots from being found. Except by Simmons, he had a weird knack for locating Grif.

So, nope not Grif. One of the Blues for sure.

The first time he'd found it he'd been so offended by the massive mess that he'd cleaned it up without even thinking about it. In his haste, he'd dropped the data pad he'd been, um, working on.

He'd rushed back the next day in a panic, having exhausted every other place it could have been and had found it sitting right in the center of the outcropping. Thankfully no one had been around to watch him creep out to get it, so sure he was going to be shot as soon as he got there, scampering back to safety once he had it. Not so much as a peep.

In the here and now he didn't spare it a single thought as he made his way up, spotting a pad in the exact same location. Scooping it up, he tapped the screen to wake it, open on screen was a file folder displaying an archived text file and a note file, said note file was open.

Same as the first time but far less terrifying. Cause that time he'd been... Well um, on the pad was uh... It was just something he'd been working on okay?! Sometimes when there wasn't much to do but stand around and think he'd find himself composing stories and stuff in his head and he'd just decided to write it down okay!? It had been bouncing around in his brain like a worm and he'd had to get out! And that was the file that had been open when he'd dropped it.

He'd almost had a heart attack when he'd seen the open note file. Oh god, someone had read it-! Not that there was anything sensitive in there, mind! It was set in the middle of a war but he didn't use anything specific to Red base in its description, no codes, no plans or procedures, nothing! It was a simple story, about a soldier who'd joined up to try and do his part, trying to overcome his failings and win the heart of the beautiful woman who worked in the requisitions department! Simple!

It was just... Really embarrassing... And someone had read it, he'd be a laughing stock for sure!

So... He'd been surprised by what the note said.

[ NOT BAD.

MADE COPY WITH SUGGESTED EDITS IN FOLDER.

GOT ANYTHING ELSE? ]

He'd been so surprised. The... was that praise? It wasn't mockery... had thrown him for a loop, to the point that he'd actually gone back to base for a new digital pad.

He'd left it there in the same spot, with a text file and a reply.

[ NOT YET, IT'S MY FIRST TRY. THANK YOU FOR THE FEEDBACK.

I HAVE A COPY OF THE TIME MACHINE THOUGH. ]

And so um... He'd sort of started checking up here whenever he was on patrol. Seeing what the Blue had to say about what he left them. Mostly sci-fi stories that had been made into movies or vice-versa, seemed the other person liked to compare them, mostly to rage on which one was the 'stupid version'.

He never left his name and neither did the Blue, so he didn't know who it was.

_That's a lie, you know exactly who this is, the evidence is everywhere._

Yeah, he knew. It was obvious. The biggest giveaway was the trash. There were still beer cans, but the majority were not empty just open, the few that were empty were laying on or near stains on the rock and dirt that indicated they'd just been dumped out. Same with the snack foods, some of it had been crushed or just abandoned, ones that had been open were empty, but the condition of the packaging gave away the culprits as scavenging birds or rodents.

Painfully obvious.

But he wasn't going to think about it. Which was a weird feeling, to know a thing but refuse to think about it? It was there and you knew but it never formed the words in your head. Did that make sense? He was sure everyone did that. At least sometimes...

Thing was, as long as he didn't acknowledge it, then it stayed a mystery, it could be anyone, anyone at all, and that way he couldn't get in trouble for doing this. How was he to know? Blue base was in sight, yes, but who was to say? Could have been a civilian? The exchange was virtually harmless so he had no reason to investigate, and he'd maintained his own anonymity so he couldn't be accused of anything.

It might seem like a foolish risk to an outside perspective, a desperate, pathetic, attempt to garner praise and social contact with another person with the veil of anonymity to protect you from mockery. That would be wrong of course. That was what the internet was for.

Back to the matter at hand, he eagerly opened the note file to see what his, pen pal? Had to say about the document he'd left last time.

[ DOCTOR = ASSHOLE. SERIOUSLY! FLIPPING HIS SHIT AT HIS OWN CREATION. JUST GIVE IT LIFE THEN TREAT IT LIKE SHIT? WTF?!

DOES THE MONSTER HAVE A NAME? DID NOT EXPECT THIS TO BE THE FIRST SCIFI. NOTHING AT ALL LIKE THE MOVIE. CAN HOLLYWOOD JUST NOT MAKE MOVIES BASED ON THIS THING THAT ARE LIKE ACTUALLY BASED ON IT? FUCKING STUPID.

CHAPTER TWO? ]

Simmons grinned, interesting perspective. Short as it was. A lot of anger directed to dear Doctor Frankenstein. Seemed to empathize a lot with the monster. Which he did expect, just that most people always felt like his creation stopped being a victim when he started killing people.

  
[ THERE ARE OTHER STORIES THAT ARE OLDER BUT THIS IS CONSIDERED THE FIRST “TRUE” SCIFI. MARY SHELLEY = BOSS.

DOCTOR IS AN ASSHOLE. IT'S NOT FAIR TO BRING SOMETHING INTO THE WORLD WITH ALL THESE EXPECTATIONS AND THEN TREAT IT LIKE SHIT JUST BECAUSE IT DIDN'T TURN OUT THE WAY YOU WANTED.

MONSTER DOES TECHNICALLY HAVE A NAME. FROM WHEN HE SAYS HE SHOULD BE FRANKENSTEIN'S “ADAM” BUT HE SEES HIM AS “MORE LIKE THE OTHER” SO REALLY THE MONSTER'S NAME IS “LUCIFER”. BIT EDGE LORD.

NOT YET. STILL WORKING. MAYBE NEXT TIME? HERE'S THE DUNWICH HORROR BY H.P LOVECRAFT. ]

Satisfied with his answer, Simmons fished a memory stick out of his suit's storage and swapped out the files. Was it weird that he was this eager to find out what the other guy thought? Not just about the books he left, but about his own writing too. He hadn't been expecting such good feedback, the praise hadn't felt condescending, the criticisms had been quite rational and didn't seem demeaning or pushy. It was a complete contrast to the usually brusk and aggressive manner of speech he saw in the comments on the other books he 'lent'. There were still plenty of crude words mind, but it seemed like there was a secret layer of professionalism in his impromptu editor. Or something like that.

Who knew a Blue would be an avid reader?

  
          Feeling oddly satisfied the burgeoning writer placed the pad back where he'd found it and hurried back to where he'd parked. Normally he'd have tidied up a bit, it wasn't good to litter, but the longer he stayed away the more the chances of Grif getting spotted, or getting suspicious, or even trying to find him, would get. And absolutely none of those had a good outcome.

Luck seemed to be on his side because his teammate was exactly where he'd left him, though interestingly enough he did turn to look his way and mumbled a “Welcome back.” when he took his place once more behind the wheel. That was, honestly, unexpected. Grif must just have been keeping a look out for Blues, even he wasn't so uncaring that he'd nap in what was basically Blue base's backyard. They were lazy and stupid sure, but they did have Tex, and that psycho would probably be eager to rip apart an easy and unaware target.

  
          Halfway point now met and passed there wasn't much left in terms of potential large events, at least he hoped not. Really the one-way story exchange back there was supposed to be the only significant thing that happened on this little trip. Guess life was full of surprises. Not that he didn't like the ones he'd gotten but honestly he didn't want any more. Just a nice quiet patrol back to base with some quite pleasant company. Not a phrase he used to describe Grif often.

Next stop proved to be not entirely uneventful. Though in a far less dramatic or exciting way. It was at a spot he had determined was the best location for scouting the Blue base. The best possible angle too, you could see the entirety of the building, even the front door, but unless you were being looked for you wouldn't be seen.

Unless Caboose was involved. Because the muscle bound, barely out of his teens and into adulthood, soldier had a weird habit of defying everything. From basic expectations to the laws of physics.

So Simmons really shouldn't have been surprised when a “Hey! Hello! What, are you doing? Up there?” Echoed up to him from the canyon floor.

He let out a startled squawk and almost fell on his ass, a sleepy snicker over the radio indicating that it hadn't gone unnoticed by his companion.

But he had not fallen over, thank you very much, and instead glared down at the dimwitted Blue.

“Oh! Oh Oh! Are you playing hide and seek!? CAN I PLAY TOO!?”

“No!” He shouted as quietly as one could shout, “I'm on patrol Caboose.”

“Oh! That's the 'I Spy' game! _But with bad guys_...” He stage-whispered the last part, and as oddly phrased as it was it actually sounded, heaven forbid, like Caboose understood. In his own way at least. Admittedly he didn't know much about the guy, though he supposed he **did** know more about him than he did the other Blues, Caboose was the one that showed up at their base out of the, well, blue, most often. Usually looking for cookies, or someone to play with, or a good hide and seek spot or some other sort of nonsense. Church was second most often because he usually came looking for Caboose.

Which was concerningly often if one thought about it, to the point that even Sarge of all people had given up on imprisoning or interrogating the rookie, and after deciding that he held no strategic value and that killing him didn't have any sport had just ordered them to find some place to put him until someone came to pick him up.

And that was a cliff note version of why one of their base's cells now contained several coloring books, crayons, a not quite fort made of two stripped bunk frames and spare blankets, and a sign that said “Caboose's Room (which is not really his room)” with most of the letters backwards, because of course they were.

Absurdly enough after being told, in the manner one would tell a gullible child, that he could use that room whenever he wanted as long as he didn't go anywhere else in the base unless one of the Reds was with him because that would be rude, Caboose had agreed without question or comment. So every once and a while someone would find him down there, humming away and drawing pictures, usually of his team. Seemed it happened more often when he was in a bad mood or had a fight with one of his aforementioned teammates.

It was not _the_ weirdest thing that Simmons had ever seen, but it was up there.

"I know that game too! Can I play? Please please please!?"

Simmons took a deep breath and counted to three.

"Fine. You can play too."

"YAY!"

"Quietly!"

" _yay_..."

The cyborg struggled for instructions as the overly eager Blue stared up at him from the canyon floor below.

"Okay... Umm," he gestured towards Blue base, "If you look over there, do you see anything new? Anything that wasn't there a few days ago?"

Caboose hummed thoughtfully, turning to stare in the direction Simmons had pointed.

"Oh! Yes, I see! Wait. No. It's just the base."

"Okay. Then nothing ne-" "Oh! Wait wait!"

Another quiet sigh, "Yes Caboose?"

"Tucker found some firecrackers yesterday! Oh, but that's inside the base... Does that count?"

"Yeah, that counts. Gonna use them for something?" firecrackers were exactly a danger unless they were put in a dangerous place. Still good to know about though, spare Red base a false alarm.

"No, they're gone!" Caboose giggled, "Tucker put them in the toilets, which I did not do, but I did watch. Church got mad and the base is very smelly!" he rocked back and forth on his feet, "That is why I am, out here. The scary lady is making Tucker clean up and Church told me to 'get lost', but that is very hard to do, I know all of the places in Blood Gulch."

Ah well, guess that was that. Some pretty good dirt though, Sarge would be pleased.

"Did I do it?" his attention was pulled back to Caboose, "Did I win?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure. Good job Caboose, thanks for your help!"

"Hurray! Oh, oops. _Hurray_..." despite the praise and apparent victory the Blue soldier still squirmed, "Is there more? It is very boring out here... All alone... By myself..."

"Uh," Simmons struggled, this should be an easy answer, just say 'no', it was a Blue for Pete's sake, the enemy! But, but... He seemed so sad, like a big stupid puppy and... He could understand feeling lonely. "Well, we have work to do. I'm umm, sorry? Maybe there's someone else you can play with?"

"I don't like Tucker and he's in trouble, Texas is a scary lady, and Church is too busy being mad at Tucker..."

"Uh, well I..."

"Oh! Sheila isn't busy! She's nice so Church wouldn't make her clean the bathroom! I can play with her!"

Simmons nodded, then realizing Caboose probably couldn't see that, gave him a thumbs up instead, "You should play more I spy with her, she can see really far, so I bet she can see all kinds of things at Blue base. There was a really *really* big bird here earlier, maybe she can find it?" not Red base, bad things happened when tanks were at Red base.

"Oh yes!" Caboose did a little hop, "THAT IS A GREAT IDEA! Thank you, Simon!"

"It's Simmons-"

"YES!" with a delighted cry Caboose took off towards his base, and probably the tank, pausing briefly to hop happily about in a small circle to wave goodbye to Simmons, who waved back, feeling a sense of surrealism about the whole thing.

"Today has been weirdly eventful..." he mumbled, shaking his head and heading the few steps back to the driver's seat.

"Every day here is weird, even when nothing happens," Grif commented with a yawn, stretching out as much as the seat would allow. "You'd make a good dad." he continued in a bit of a nonsequitur.

Simmons gave a snort in reply, "I doubt that. I'd be a terrible father." he was terrible at most things, why would he be good at something that important and that difficult?

"Nah, I doubt your doubt. Worst you'd be would be maybe a little bit, like, mother hen. Probably worry just a bit too much. But that's why you just get a wife or husband or whatever, who can tell you when to chill." Grif argued, "Trust me, met enough shitty dads and enough people with shitty dads to know one when I see one."

As he maneuvered them carefully along the rise Simmons thought a bit about what Grif had said, "I don't know, I still think I'd be shit at it. But I guess I never really thought about having kids."

"Don't like kids?" did Grif sound surprised?

"No, I don't hate kids. I mean, I figured I'd cross that bridge when I got to it. Didn't seem like much of a point while I was in the military. Guess I'd go along with whatever my spouse wanted?"

Grif chuckled, "Be careful. Attitude like that you're gonna make some control freak nutcase really happy."

Simmons didn't answer, mostly because despite wanting to tell Grif he was wrong, he couldn't. He honestly hadn't thought about it, and really he still didn't see why anything about his interaction with Caboose indicated he'd be a good parent... He was just trying to... Talk to the guy without being an ass. He was obviously messed up. They really hadn't talked to him a whole lot, but he always got the sort of sense that while 'childlike' was probably a good descriptor for the guy that it was less a case of Caboose being stuck in a childlike state and more an issue with communication. That he understood a lot more than what people seemed to give him credit for, he just couldn't express it in any other way.

Oh well, he'd probably never have the opportunity to test that theory, and besides, they were at war, eventually, he might be faced with the grim reality of having to kill him. No good would come from getting attached. He'd only feel worse.

  
          Finally, another five check points later, they were done and pulling up to Red base. It seemed that the impromptu encounter with Caboose was the final event of substance on this patrol. Simmons wasn't really sure how he felt about that, nothing that had happened over the last few hours had been bad really, just surprising. Normally exactly nothing happened on patrol, just barely living trees, dead grass, dust, dirt, and rocks.

So while he actually sort of had been hoping for just that, just a quiet drive, he had to admit it had been kind of fun. Dare he say it but he actually felt a bit better than he'd thought he would. What a novelty.

At least he had something interesting to write in his report.

Not that he didn't enjoy writing them per say, just that there were only so many ways to write nearly the same thing over and over. Especially when you have a minimum amount of pages to meet.

Depressing thing was though, he was eighty percent sure that Sarge didn't actually read any of it and probably just threw it away.

  
          The sudden cut of the sound of the engine when he turned it off was always jarring after hearing it for so long, but it was always oddly nice.

Leaning back in his seat Simmons closed his eyes and let his head fall back as much as the headrest would allow, basking in the new silence. He took as full a breath as his new lungs would hold, which one would probably not be surprised to learn, while not an absurd amount, was noticeably more than human lungs should be able to hold. He held it for a count of ten, forcing relaxation through his body afterward as he released it in a soul deep sigh, stretching his arms and legs the best he could.

A guard against the stress that would undoubtedly return before the day was over.

For the final time since they'd set out he left the driver's seat, walking around the front, intending to wake Grif up before heading inside.

Man, what were they going to do about the blood? Was on their armor too, not a lot, but any amount was dangerously unsanitary. Might be a bit inevitable in a war zone but that didn't mean you could just leave it there. He should probably just offer to do it and skip the runaround. Probably needed to be scrubbed anyway. He'd probably be the one who'd clean the windshield too-

Too caught up in his calculative speculation, Simmons didn't realize that his goal of waking up Grif was no longer necessary until he was almost knocked over by the heavier man hopping out of the passenger's seat.

It was an almost, not because he had kept his footing, in reality, he'd pitched backward with an embarrassing warble, but because Grif had caught him by the wrist and kept him from cracking his head on the ground. As it was he stared up at the other for several long fear frozen seconds, held up only by his teammate's hold on his arm and one awkwardly bent leg that struggled to do its job.

" _Jesus_!" Grif burst out laughing, "Fuck, are you okay?"

Simmons couldn't help the laughter that bubbled out of his own mouth, "You almost gave me a heart attack!"

Still laughing Grif helped him back onto his feet. "Damn, if I'd known that was going to happen I'd have yelled 'bird'!"

"And then I'd be dead and then what would you do?"

The two stood there a moment snickering, getting themselves back under control. Before he could add anything else or try and breach the topic of his prior thoughts on cleaning up this mess, Simmons was surprised by a barely there touch on his back. It wasn't very high up, he wouldn't have felt it if it was, too much armor in the way, it was more mid back, or... Lower mid back? Not the small, but above that?

Was that low enough to be considered intimate..? Or was it just a coincidence? It was firm enough that he could definitely feel it, but he might almost call it cautious? He might also call it gentle...

He swallowed and bit his lower lip nervously. Was he supposed to say something? Would it be weird if he did? If he didn't? Was this even weird to begin with?

He could feel his face heating up. Was Grif trying to-? No that was stupid. Grif wasn't like that. They weren't like that. No matter what the others whispered about he was not starved for attention or affection! Or anything Donut liked to gossip about! These accusations were unfounded and unfair!

But... But still... Should he be worried how very **very** aware he was of this point of contact? Of how long it had been since he'd even touched another human being?

Of how...not terrible this felt?

Oh god, he'd been quiet for way too long! Say something, idiot!

"Umm-"

"Thanks."

"Eh?"

"I said 'thanks'," Grif repeated, pulling his hand away, and oh god Simmons _felt_ that loss. Remorse like a physical pain. Fuck! He had to be over thinking this, there was just no way, and he'd never even considered- he wasn't even likable!

"I'm not saying it a third time, so I hope you caught it."

"I-I did."

"Okay good, because that's like my entire yearly quota of thanks right there. I don't even have any left for Thanksgiving, so I hope you appreciate that."

"I... Don't actually know how to respond to that. I'm not sure what I'm being thanked for."

Grif gave him what he was sure was a hard look from behind his visor.

"I'm being serious!" Simmons whined pathetically.

His teammate sighed, deciding he was being honest, "Okay. Fuck, look. I was having kind of a shitty day. There. Alright? And that, I guess you could call what you did 'driving'" still with the jokes I see, "it wasn't... Terrible. So I guess I wouldn't mind doing it again."

"It's never as exciting as it was today." Simmons ventured, "Not trying to dissuade you or anything, just telling the truth."

Grif shrugged, "That's fine. Ideal napping conditions. Besides if it's that bad I'll just chuck you in the passenger seat."

"And drive us off a cliff."

"Only if you're good."

Simmons couldn't help but smile despite feeling conflicted. On the one he'd actually succeeded in giving a decent gift! But on the other, he hadn't actually been trying to. In fact, his motives had been entirely self-serving. Regardless of this positive outcome, it didn't count.

"You gonna tell Sarge what Caboose said?" Grif asked, eyeing the mess on the windshield, "You know if you do he's probably going to want to attack the Blues."

"It is a perfect strategic opportunity. It's good dirt."

"Somehow I doubt Sarge would actually do anything strategic with that information. You know full well that by the end of the day all we'll be is covered with sewage."

Simmons shuddered, "I suppose I could downplay that part. Or just distract him."

"With what?"

The redhead tapped his helmet, "Still got whatever my camera recorded of that Eagle. I bet he'd love to see it, it is our mascot after all."

Grif stared at him, "It is?!"

"Dude, it's on our flag. Haven't you ever looked at it?"

"Nope!" his teammate popped the 'P' obnoxiously, turning his attention back to the Warthog, "Man when Donut sees this he's gonna fucking weep."

Selfish origins or not, he couldn't deny that Grif was in a visibly better mood - No! Decline! Shoo! Go away, stupid spooky techno crap! - perhaps that was the path he should be taking? Grif liked more simple luxuries, but perhaps he also preferred more intimate settings? Intimate in a quiet private 'friends just chilling' sort of way, as opposed to say big noisy events? Or a big event, like a club or bar, with just a couple friends or single person? Perhaps he should pursue this route instead...

"Think if we convince Sarge this is from a Blue that we ran over he'd give us the rest of the week off?"

Just have to find out...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WoW I can't believe how long this chapter turned out to be! And oh man, I know so many things about Eagles now! XD 
> 
> And for anyone who was confused or curious, the thing Simmons' cybernetics keep doing is kind of like what phones and laptops do, they ping the area looking for other electronics and even when not actively connected they still share TONS of information with each other, and they constantly let their user know that there is another device they can connect to.
> 
> Also three guesses as to who's 'secret spot' that is. X)
> 
> Lastly, fun thing I discovered while checking the linage of Simmons' last name. (when I was deciding what side of the family the Irish is on) It's English and is either derived from the first name 'Simon' which means "snub-nosed" OR the name 'Sigmund' which is composed of the Nordic words 'sig' meaning ‘victory’ and 'mundr' meaning ‘protection'. I for one choose to believe it's the latter.
> 
> As always if you spotted any mistakes or things I should have tagged, let me know and I'll fix them! And if you have any suggestions for gifts feel free to throw them at me! Your comments are absolute delights to see! ~ Much love, CC


	4. I'll be your Dakimakura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is hanging out a present? Is watching TV together a present?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of not really spoiler alert for the series "Madoka Magica" if you haven't watched it and wanted to you probably should before reading this. 
> 
> If you see any errors or inconsistencies let me know and I'll fix them!

 

Grif has to admit that he is oddly delighted after he gets a private call from Simmons.

 

          It's not anything fancy, just person to person com, a private channel that's probably intended for use in like sneaky secret two-person mission shit. But, of course, they never **do** things like that so the only real use left is to abuse it for secret texts and calls between one another. So part of his delight is undoubtedly due to the fact that it seems Simmons is not above abusing it either.

It is also due to how hilarious the fact that he called is, considering they were on watch together less than an hour ago. So it really comes off less like Simmons just thought of this now and more that he didn't have the nerve to ask him in person, which just screams of a fear of being rejected face to face. It's something about the guy that Grif might almost call adorable.

Were he the type of person to call something adorable in a way that wasn't dripping with sarcasm.

It's a thousand percent better too because the call is preceded by two text messages, one that is the actual thing Simmons wanted to ask him and the second, which arrived almost immediately after, screaming for him to disregard the first message (seriously don't read it!) and that he was going to call instead.

He did, and it's so very amusing because its stuttered and stammered, backtracked, and corrected, and overly explained. Like a nerd asking the hot cheerleader to prom. Priceless.

Grif had gathered the general gist of it but still decided to have mercy on the poor guy and stopped him mid-ramble with, "Plane English dude. Dial it back."

A few coughing stammers to clear the system, kick out some glitches, and Simmons finally squeaked, "I was uh, I'm, it's been pretty boring after hours and I was um, gonna maybe marathon some stuff? Watch a movie or something? Join me? I mean if you wanted to... If you were bored?"

And Grif had said 'sure' because it absolutely had been boring as hell, and vegging out watching stuff? Always good. Especially with snacks, and there better be snacks (he was totally bringing his own regardless but it was the principal of the thing). But what stuck out to him, and what was also the other reason he was delighted was that Simmons had been the one to reach out to **him**.

That in itself wasn't an impossibility, but it happened so infrequently that it kind of was never. Until now. This was two, _two_ times, over the last _week and a half!_

Usually, Grif was the one who had to initiate these kinds of things, which involved less asking and more telling Simmons they were going to do something. Which was always followed by squeaky stammers or whined excuses as to why he couldn't or they couldn't, stupid things like rules, or work, or regulations, or 'what if's. Who cared? The world wouldn't end if they weren't up on the roof keeping watch for fuck all, they wouldn't burst into flames if they didn't spend x amount of time cleaning gear or tuning weapons or practicing their aim or hand to hand or doing _inventory_.

One might ask, why? Really you couldn't be blamed for it. Why even put forth the effort to make Simmons hang out with him? All signs pointed to him not wanting to.

Ah, but there, dear, hypothetical person hanging around in his head, you would be wrong. Because Simmons did want to. And no he wasn't going at this from a perspective of ' _you say no but you really mean yes_ ', that shit was creepy as fuck. No, see, if Grif could pride himself on one thing (besides his personal pizzas per hour record, which was ten thank you very much) it was that he was observant. He noticed all kinds of things, but he was best when it came to people. Simmons was weird, and there was not nearly enough time right now to go into the hows and whys, but in this case, it was the fact that he almost desperately wanted attention, to be engaged with verbally or physically with others. (the latter of which he seemed to have the most trouble)

The main hiccup though was two things, first of which being that he seemed to be afraid of, or expecting, the worst when he did get it, second, that he didn't actually seem to like anyone else on their team. Not that Grif could blame him, Lopez was irritable and nigh impossible to understand, Donut was tremendously overbearing and his innuendos could make even the stoniest person uncomfortable, and Sarge was... _Sarge_.

So when Simmons would look at him almost pleadingly even as he made stammering excuses Grif would press the issue anyway until he won out over whatever baggage had his teammate so afraid.

Because believe it or not, he got it, he really did.

Besides, Simmons needed this, he needed downtime, he needed to relax. If no one intervened Grif was 1000% certain that the redhead would work himself to death. Guy gathered stress like some people collected trading cards, and the closer he got to his breaking point the more irritable he got. Wasn't going to pretend that Simmons wasn't fully capable of being a giant asshole, but on that note, Grif knew he could be one too. Often.

  
Shut up!

  
Anyway, the point was that after so long, instead of having to harass and practically browbeat the guy into taking a break, Simmons was finally coming to him instead. Frankly, he considered that a huge step of progress. To what he couldn't say but it still felt like it.

Of course, he should also point out that hanging with Simmons wasn't a chore either. He didn't like chores and you could bet your ass that if there wasn't any sort of reward in it he would've just ignored the guy just like everyone else. See, Simmons wasn't a bad person, he had flaws (boy did he!) but when Grif wore him down and got him to finally relax, the experience was not, in fact, terrible.

When the skittishness, anxiousness, and desperation to please authority finally fell away, when he was finally comfortable enough to, in a sense, come out of hiding, Simmons was actually a pretty fun guy. Still a massive nerd, but the fun kind, he was rather insightful, willing to hear out any crazy ideas with minimal poo-pooing, and massively fun to debate with.

He was fun to fight with too, and Grif did feel just the _tiniest_ bit of shame about goading him like that, but whoa boy! If you got Simmons going, he could become a fucking predator! He'd throw the full force of his intellect into destroying you because you were **fucking _wrong_** , he seemed to forget his own insecurity, his nearly impulsive need to sugar coat everything, he came right for the jugular with a tongue like a razor blade.

And it was **fun**! Like honest to god!

Grif didn't know if that was considered technically _healthy_ or not, but he sure felt better afterward, and Simmons looked it too, face flushed and out of breath, stiff posture finally relaxed, like a planet's worth of weight had fallen off. Painted a surprisingly nice picture, there was something satisfying about a disheveled Simmons. The guy always looked a bit guilty when he calmed down, so Grif made sure to include a joke or some gesture to show that there were no hard feelings, no reason to feel bad. And if he was really lucky? He'd get a shy smile back and that just felt like winning a prize.

So yeah, purposeful hanging out? With movies or a series? Snacks? You bet he was all for that!

  
          It was about the time they were finishing up dinner, (which usually did end up being just him and Simmons at the end, because he liked to take his time and go back for thirds, and Simmons would wait for him so he could do the dishes, because no one else would) when said skittish soldier got up earlier than normal and tapped his shoulder for his attention on the way to the sink.

"I'm gonna go get stuff ready, I don't know if you wanna take a shower or change or whatever."

Grif swallowed a mouthful of mashed potatoes, "Planning to go late?"

"Until I'm ready to pass out. Then I'll have to kick you out." Simmons teased.

Grif gasped in mock surprise, "Oh no! I thought this was a sleepover! Who will braid my hair now?! What about the ceremonial pillow fight!?"

His teammate snorted, "I'll see you in 30." before heading out of the room.

So 30 minutes then? Grif pushed a chunk of meatloaf around his plate, slathering it in gravy and stray potato. If they were staying up until they were dead on their feet then maybe he should change into something else. While not particularly uncomfortable, fatigues weren't designed with sleep in mind, and they kind of got itchy after a while, so he didn't really want to stay in them if he didn't have to.

Well, he did have 30 minutes regardless... Maybe he should...

Vague beginnings of a plan forming in his head Grif made quick work of what had been left on his plate, he probably could have gone for more but time was ticking and there would be snacks later and dumped it unceremoniously in the sink for someone else to deal with.

 

          Okay! Step one of his admittedly short three-step plan, which wasn't much of a plan if he thought about it, grab some sleep clothes from his room. Or at least something that amounted to them, he generally slept in his boxers unless it was cold, and the canyon was anything but. He doubted Simmons would appreciate him showing up in his underwear, funny as the look on his face would be. So his single pair of long yellow sleep pants and a well worn, well loved, gray t-shirt, band logo cracked and faded away to the point that it was more discoloration of the fabric than a painted decal, would have to do.

Part two of the plan was the more... _Unpleasant_ part.

He shifted from foot to foot, trying not to be anxious. Because he wasn't. Simmons was the anxious one. He was more...irritated. Yeah, irritated.

Sighing in resignation he pushed open the door to the showers, sometimes sacrifices must be made and all that. He glanced around quickly, finding no one else there, thank god. Well specifically Donut wasn't in here, Simmons was getting ready and Sarge had a personal shower in his room.

Now don't misunderstand. There was a reason that he didn't want anyone else in here, and it wasn't because he was self-conscious, that was Simmons' hang up, or that he thought he'd be mocked for taking the rare shower, that wasn't it at all.

And he didn't have anything against showers, or water or anything, he liked water, liked swimming and surfing, even being out in the rain! It was just... _Irritating_... you know, sometimes you just don't feel like doing things? Like there's not much of a point since it won't change anything or it'll all just get undone? And sometimes you just... Can't? Like you know you should, maybe you even want to, but it just won't happen? And when circumstances are against you or they make it harder to do the thing, it just doesn't feel worth it. But... Well, sometimes you find a way to force yourself to do it, usually when you had no other options. Right?

He had, however, found a solution to the practical part of the issue, but it required there to be no one here. That way there was no one to see him when he chucked his change of clothes on a bench and padded over to Donut's locker.

Which was something that you couldn't possibly miss, even from orbit, what with the amount of deco glitter all over the damn thing. He pulled the catch open with two pinched fingers, half dancing out of the way when he swung the door open, dodging the variable waterfall of sparkles that shed off onto the floor.

_Like a majestic pixie fart._

Donut had to have done this on purpose because the eye-scathingly-pink paint already had glitter in it, did you need to coat it with more? He didn't have anything against pink or glitter, whatever the rookie wanted to do to his locker was no skin off his nose. Just that it got **everywhere**! And everyone knew that glitter was the herpes of craft supplies! You get it on you and nothing will get rid of it, you'll find it on you **YEARS** after the fact, everyone you touch will be infected!

He probably did it to keep people out of his locker. _The nerve!_ Suspecting his own teammates like that!

Grif rummaged through the locker's contents, careful to return everything he moved to its original place afterward. Come on... Don't tell him there wasn't any more- ah ha! Score!

From the cavalcade of supplies, he pulled a bottle of shampoo and a bottle of liquid soap. The labels cheerfully announcing how extra hydrating it was and most importantly, how gentle it was on sensitive skin.

Looked like a new set too, scent was different, 'Warm Vanilla and Shea Butter!'. Hurray? Well, at least he'd smell like cookies and not Orchids like the last ones... Ugh. That smell was so oppressive... and hard to explain.

Better than the generic shit the army gave them, crap made him itch, and it burned sensitive areas, it was awful! How Simmons could stand to use it he had no idea and curious as he was he wasn't going to test it out on his gifted limbs.

Now you might say, 'But Grif! Why don't you just order some soap of your own? If Donut can get it then why not you?', might seem like that would be easier but it wasn't because it would involve saying why.

 _I can't use the soap, it makes me sick._  
_I can't use the cleaner, it makes me sick._  
_I can't use the detergent, it makes me sick._

Oh yeah, that would go over well. No one would mock him for that, or try to baby him, or actually, swap that shit out for stuff he could use and then expect him to do even **MORE** work. _Suuuuure_.

Not worth it.

His shower was relatively quick but thorough. Simmons better appreciate all this effort, he was doing it to make sure the neurotic redhead couldn't find some imaginary flaw and flee back to his self-imposed prison. Undo all this hard work.

He even combed his hair!

Not that it did a whole lot to tame it, it was just naturally wavy and fly away, he suspected that Simmons' hair was similar. Scratch that, he knew it was. Part of the skin graft on his face had come with a patch of that almost absurdly red hair, which was finally starting to grow out, it was somewhat straight and curving into little 'C' shapes and seemed to be gaining more waves and curls the longer it got. He suspected that if he let it grow out that Simmons' hair might actually be even wilder than his was. On that note, his own hair was finally starting to grow out again, a bit longer and he'd be able to pull it back into a ponytail. Still a far cry from how long it had been before, but it was a start, and certainly better than when he'd first been drafted and they'd shaved it all off, the assholes.

  
          Dressed and suitably groomed, well passably groomed, it was time for step three! Snacks!

Which weren't hard to find, not at all, more, hard to _choose_... Should he take his favorites? If he did and ate them all there wouldn't be any later. Maybe his second favorites? The ones he had lots of? What sort of snacks would Simmons have? Did that mean he'd been hoarding snacks that Grif didn't know about?! 

With a frustrated whine he finally just grabbed a bag of chips and a box of Oreos at random. Salt and Vinegar chips and double stuffed Oreos. Acceptable!

It was thus that he appeared at Simmons' door not long after, knocking by way of kicking the corner and then just letting himself in anyway.

Wouldn't want Simmons to think he was suddenly 'civilized', _waaay_ too many expectations.

  
          "I would have opened that you know..." the aforementioned Simmons sighed.

"But then how would I assert my independence?"

His teammate snorted, then squawked when Grif's snacks sailed narrowly past his head to plop squarely onto his pillow. Two points!

Speaking of snacks...

Grif sniffed the air in interest, eyes flicking to the culprit, "Dude is that popcorn?" and beer too, looked like a semi-cheap six-pack in its respective carton, sitting next to the bowl of sneaky salty goodness on top of the dresser.

"It is," Simmons stated, moving the tossed snacks and neurotically fixing his pillow. Probably for the thousandth time knowing him.

"Where did you get it?"

"I made it."

"From what?"

"From corn."

Grif's eye twitched and Simmons snickered.

"We got corn, whole corn, in the drop. It's really easy, shuck it, dry it, strip it, pop it on the stove." he shrugged awkwardly, "Donut showed me how, he said, _'in the country, you 'make do'_."

Grif paled, "Why did you say that so sinisterly?"

"That's how Donut said it!"

"The fuck!?"

"I know right?!" Simmons squeaked, before collecting himself and gesturing a bit sheepishly to the room as a whole, "So umm... Have a seat? Just sort of, wherever?"

 

          Grif looked around, fully taking in the room for the first time since entering. Each of the private's bunks was more or less identical, just a small concrete box with a single narrow shuttered window in the center near the top, looking more like an air vent than an actual window. They came with a small indented closet-like space on one side of the room, a flat sliding door all that kept it from just being a divot. One size fits all single bed, a cheap dresser, and one squat metal trunk where you could shove whatever didn't fit in the barely a closet.

It seemed Simmons had moved things since he'd last been in here, probably what he'd been setting up earlier. The bed hadn't moved, it was still wedged in the corner to the upper right of the door, head against the far wall. He had moved the dresser though, it was pushed as close to the head of the bed as possible, which had the bonus of putting the snacks within arms reach. Though if Simmons didn't think he was going to move them to the bed he was sure in for a surprise! The trunk had been pulled from the foot of the bed toward the middle of the room, making a little platform for Simmons' helmet, which was plugged into his laptop, the latter resting in the center of his bed for the moment. Was pretty obvious what all this for, given that the now unobscured left wall had a crisp white bed sheet stretched across it, tacked down and smoothed in such a way that it looked almost like a solid sheet of paper, not a wrinkle or crease. Perfect for a makeshift projector. _Damn_ , never mind, that was what he'd clearly spent all his time on.

Taking a seat on the bed, (because really where else was he going to sit?) Grif used the opportunity to observe his host as he made a final check of his set up.

He'd changed into sleepwear as well, but it was kind of funny... He'd seen Simmons in his pj's before, both before going to bed and having just awoken, and there was something different about this... Huh... The only way he could think to describe it was that it looked like he'd put effort into it?

While not the sort of person to obsess over coordination of color or fabric, Simmons did believe in the preservation of matching sets, so it might not have seemed any different to the outside eye. But Grif knew better. This was... Shit, how should he put it? Like... He'd picked out the best one? The pair that looked the best on him? You know, everyone had something like that, no matter how unconcerned with appearance you might be, everyone had that pair of pants that made their ass look great, that shirt that fits perfectly. This was like that.

Not that he was looking at Simmons' ass! He couldn't see it anyway, guy was almost fully facing him, clicking away on his laptop. But it still looked like it all fit well, the pants, long, obviously, dark gray, light, probably cotton or whatever, looked comfortable. The shirt was more of a giveaway. At least he thought so. It was overly long in both body and sleeve, not a surprise, Simmons' unease at exposing any part of himself was painfully obvious, the hem almost reached mid-thigh and the sleeves almost covered the entirety of his hands, fingers just sort of peaking out. It looked almost fitted too like it wasn't tight or anything but it sure as hell wasn't baggy. Was maybe a little too 'goth' in that it was pitch black, the sort of thing you'd see on a theater kid or some emo brat, not too surprising though, Simmons' personal clothes always seemed to be monochromatic or really de-saturated, not much color outside of details. Maybe he did it because his hair was so absurdly red? It definitely made it stand out. Or maybe it was another attempt to avoid unwanted attention?

Not that he was succeeding in that right now. Grif didn't mean to take note of all this detail like some kind of creep, honest! It was just... Unexpected? Like the collar! For a brief moment he honestly thought Simmons was wearing a shirt cut for a woman, because if a girl had been wearing it her shoulders would have been peaking out, Simmons' wider shoulders prevented that, but it still provided a good view of his collarbone and the beginning slope of said shoulders, he could even see the often hidden spot where the mount for his cybernetic arm started.

God damn it now he really did sound like a creeper! He wasn't here to- Hold up! Had Simmons actually taken the time to comb his hair? No matter who you were, by the end of the day you had helmet hair, but his looked like it had been ruffled and combed out.

He'd like to ruffle- _damn it knock it off!_ If Simmons were interested in that sort of thing he'd make it clear that- well no he probably wouldn't... But any attempt to find out if he was would likely end in a freakout and an insecure meltdown that would obliterate this fragile sort of companionship thing they had going on. Besides, this could just be a passing puppy thing or just a lack of other options. The consequences and potential fallout of even a successful attempt to entreat him into messing around weren't worth the risk.

What they had right now was fine.

He'd just chalk it up to a misuse of precious effort and keep his thoughts to himself.

... And try not to feel self-conscious in his own appearance, mismatched and messy.

  
          He glanced to his right as Simmons, finally satisfied with his set up, plopped down next to him, laptop in... lap.

"Okay... So I've got a pretty big collection of stuff, movies and series, mostly sci-fi but other genres too." did he just blush? "I thought maybe you'd prefer to pick, but I can suggest something if you don't want to?" ah, embarrassment then. Poor socially awkward cinnamon bun.

Cinnamon... _Sinnamon_. Ha!

Grif plucked the offered machine from his teammate's hands, "Nah, let me see what you've got." he scrolled around in the open folder primly named 'Movies and Series', valiantly resisting the urge to click out and see if there was anything embarrassing in the folders pined as favorites.

'Writing' looked pretty juicy... But he was being good tonight.

He clicked on 'series' and scrolled down. Hmm lots of things he recognized, Star-trek, TOS through DS9 and Voyager. Good boy. Battle-star Galactica, original and remake, Doctor Who... Huh, Buffy, unexpected but not surprising. There were a bunch of more modern things in here too but there was a **sea** of old content. Oo! Was that Power Rangers? It was in a folder with something called Super Sentai... Huh. What was this folder?

"Cartoons?"

The redhead squirmed, "What? They're good! And animation was originally created for adult consumption, the notion that you're somehow creepy or weird just for liking it isn't fair, it-"

"Dude breathe. I'm not judging. I don't care what you like."

He really didn't care. As long as you weren't doing anything creepy or messing it up for little kids, who gave a shit?

Hold up. What the heck was this!?

"Uh..." Was that anime? "Hey _dude?_ " he couldn't stop the laugh that warped his question, and yes that was anime, not nearly the only one here from the look of it, but the thumbnail on this one caught his eye and he just couldn't look away, _"What is this?"_

It was a picture of what most likely a little girl, pink, all in pink, little pink pigtails, pink eyes, pink costume, pink ribbons, pink bow and arrow with a big pink flower which seemed to be on fire (pink fire), staring out at him with a look that while determined also seemed to be full of worry.

If she'd been all red he'd have declared her Simmons' spirit animal based on that expression alone.

"T-that's a-! It's not what you think!"

"Oh? And what do I think it is Simmons?"

"It's really good!" Simmons made the best faces, he really did, "I know it's ..."

The last part was mumbled too quiet to hear, but Grif knew what he'd said.

_It was a magical girl anime._

"Well, we are watching the crap out of this!"

The noise he got in reply was equal parts worrying and hilarious, it was a strangled sort of shrill sound which was warped to a degree by an electronic kind of warble. Should he be worried about that?

"Come on, dude. It'll be fun!"

Simmons gave his chest a few whacks with his fist and gave a couple raspy coughs before composing himself, "No!" well as much as a fretting Simmons could be composed, "Pick something else! You're just going to make fun of me!"

Ouch, well that wasn't an unfair assumption.

Grif held up his hands in a peace offering, "I'm not! Unless it's, like, a weird pervy thing. I just wanna see why you like it!"

Simmons was looking down at his lap now, gripping fistfuls of the fabric of his pants, face flushed so red his freckles were disappearing, "I like it because it's good..."

"Then let's watch it."

"Fine." the cyborg replied quietly.

Grif flicked Simmons' ear, earning a surprised grunt, he could see him working himself up to tears and they were not doing that today, it was marathon time.

"Seriously I don't care that you like these kinds of shows. I just didn't expect it and now I wanna see why. Okay?"

His teammate blinked his eyes (well, eye) clear and nodded. Good.

"Sweet. Now kill the lights and throw a beer at my head."

Simmons cracked a smile, hopping up to do what he'd been asked, he made a detour to the closet on the way, fishing something out and tossing it to Grif, who easily caught the box.

"Tissues?"

"Never know," Simmons flicked the lights off, "we might need them."

"Uh huh..."

  
          Two episodes in and Grif couldn't deny the show was good, at least for what it was. The animation was good, effects for the witch monster things were great. He just wasn't sure why Simmons liked it. There was some intrigue, in the form of the surreal as fuck dream in the opening and the semi-creepy black haired purple chick. 

The characters were nice though. Pink hair was really shy, bit nervous, almost to the point of annoying but as of yet not crossing that line. Her blue haired friend was more energetic and seemed like she was going to be the backbone of the group, the go-getter rookie sort of person. Purple annoyed him though, just a little, she was all cryptic and shit, all ' _don't make a wish_ ' but never saying why. Made her come off like an ass. Man he hoped this wasn't going to turn into one of those stupid things where the characters all become friends with the villain even though they're never redeemed, like 'Oh you were sad so it's okay that you blew up the mall! Let's be friends!' kind of bs. Then, of course, there was the blonde veteran girl, he liked her, she was so bad ass! She was clearly going to be their mentor. She was almost absurdly girly but in like a sophisticated way? It should have been annoying but it was like she'd earned it? If that made sense? She was allowed to be absurd and sip tea after putting a bullet through a witch's head because she'd already proven what a fucking **beast** she was.

So yeah he was kind of getting into it, he just, again, wasn't really sure why Simmons would like it with how picky he was...

  
          Then episode three happened.

Then four, then five.

And the violin solo paired with blue's inner monologue did not make his heart hurt! … it didn't make his eyes sting either! And a new girl joined the gang and she was all red and kind of a bitch but he couldn't help but like her.

Then six

Simmons passed him a new beer, which he took while he fished around for a final handful of popcorn without looking away from the screen.

Then seven.

Okay so maybe Red was his favorite now, and maybe the story she'd told about her family and her connection to food hit home just a little _too_ hard... and maybe seeing her in the position of watching someone you loved destroying themselves was terribly familiar and-

Then eight.

“ _Simmooooons!_ ”

“Yes?” his teammate asked, already rubbing his eye with a tissue.

“ _Whhhhhhhy!?_ ”

Then nine.

This whole thing was hard to watch because he could just tell it wasn't going to end well. Then Red formally introduced herself to Pink and shook her hand with a candy bar and so yeah this girl was his favorite and he would deny forever that that gesture was what broke him and it didn't make him choke on tears and it sure as hell had nothing to do with him passing a precious Oreo to Simmons who at least had the decency to take it like the sacred object it was and not say anything. Though he did eat it in bites and didn't twist it open to eat the cream and someday they were going to have a serious talk about that!

Then ten.

Simmons wordlessly passed him a tissue without prompting.

Then eleven.

He took it back. He loved the purple girl. All her rainbow haired little friends too. And he was going to adopt them all because the world was a sad and terrible place and he was going to make sure nothing bad would happen to them ever!

Simmons handed him another tissue and scooted a little closer.

Then twelve, final episode.

Was there a word for when you felt happy even though your heart was snapping into pieces for like the eight time in the last... what? Several hours?

Poor Simmons was just silently weeping to his right at this point but he was also smiling so guess it wasn't just him?

  
          “Simmons?” He asked as the final credits began to roll.

“Yes?”

“We can't tell Donut about the naked glitter dimension.”

The redhead burst out laughing, “Fuck I-” he rubbed his human eye with the back of his hand, grinning, “You ass that's all you have to say?”

“It wasn't _that_ great.”

“There's a follow-up movie. Let me just go load it up and-”

“ **No!** Simmons! My heart can't take it! You win! It's really good! I admit it!” He wailed dramatically, flopping back on the bed, narrowly avoiding his teammate with his foot, “We have to adopt them now. You know that right?”

“ _We_?” Simmons asked, quickly catching on to the joke, “Why do _I_ have to be a part of this?”

“Because I can't take care of five kids all by myself! There's no choice. And if not you then who? I can't trust anyone else to watch over Pinky, who's going to look after her? Put her in one of those sweaters like those little dogs that shakes a lot? I'll be too busy teaching Red about pie eating contests so she can impress her girlfriend Blue!”

“You think they're dating huh?” Simmons teased.

“They _absolutely_ are!” Grif scoffed, “And!” He continued from where he left off, “If not you then who else is going to make sure Boobs Mackenzie gets into Harvard? Or makes sure Purple gets all the therapy in the world so she stops making pipe bombs and stealing from the **military**!? We can't trust Sarge or Donut to do that! They'll all die and the rabbit will win!”

Simmons laughed, scooping up Grif's empty beer bottle before it could fall over onto the bed, “I guess I can't argue with that! Glad you liked it.” He motioned to his laptop, “Wanna throw on something else?” he rolled his shoulders a little, “I'm starting to feel a bit tired but I'm not ready to sleep yet.”

“Hope not, it's only midnight.” Grif chided playfully, pulling himself back up into a sitting position, “I feel like we need something funny after all of that... Maybe some Trek? Original series is pretty hilarious.”

Simmons gasped, throwing a hand to his chest as he leaned back to put their empty bottles in the original carton like a nerd, “You offend me sir!” he couldn't hold a straight face to the end of the sentence, alcohol must be bringing out his playful side. Probably why Grif felt more playful himself.

“You insult such a great work of sci-fi? Second only to the works of Shakespeare, in my house?! How dare you! I want a divorce! I'll take custody of all our rainbow anime children!”

"Not my skittle babies!"

The two of them burst out laughing, Simmons bracing himself, on one hand, to keep from falling over and potentially landing on Grif.

"Okay, okay." the redhead gasped on his laughter, "Get up, I'm gonna put it on."

Begrudgingly Grif did as he was asked, settling into a lounging position, back against the wall. Surprisingly comfy. Noticing his bag of chips was all the way on the dresser he whined pitifully, making a grabby hand motion at it. Maybe this would be when his hidden mutant powers would manifest and he would telekinetically move it towards himself!

Simmons gave a laughing snort and reached over, plucked the bag from the dresser top, and tossed it to him.

Hmm, perhaps telepathy then? Or, maybe telepathy with just Simmons?

That was a thought.

 

          "Hey, if you could have telepathy but it was only with one person, would you get it?"

"One person at a time or one person, period?"

"One period, just them, forever."

"If they die do I get a new person?"

"No."

"Do they continue to exist in some way that lets me keep talking to them?"

"Oh, crap I'm not sober enough for that... Um... Guess you'd find out if they died? Ummm... Simplicity's sake I'm saying _no_?"

Simmons hummed, settling back against the wall next to Grif, "Do I get to pick?"

It was Grif's turn to hum, "To make this interesting, how about, no?" he grinned, "More fun that way."

Simmons frowned, "Can they answer me? Or am I like screaming into the void?"

"They can answer."

The cyborg's brow furrowed in thought, "Shit _I_ am not sober enough... Um... Uh. No. I'm going to say no."

"Oh? "

"Yeah, like what if it was a little kid? They'd get tossed in the psych ward. I could mess them up! Or I could get someone who doesn't speak my language. Or if it's not just humans I could end up with like a dog. Or an alien!"

"Good point." though... "Oh! Dude! But, what if was something cool? I mean you're a cyborg, what if you got, like, a supercomputer or something?"

"Like an AI?"

Grif grinned, "Yeah! How cool would that be?"

Simmons looked contemplative, "That could be really cool... But, still no I think. AI don't live very long. Even the most advanced ones survive less than 10 years. Something about how they're made. Too much information after a while or something like that and they start to break down. I wouldn't want to make it happen faster."

"So **morose**."

Simmons blinked slowly at him, "That's an awful big vocabulary word for you."

Grif huffed, "Hush your butt, I'm drunk. Slightly."

That got him a smile, though he noticed it falter a little when Simmons touched the platting on his temple, fingers brushing over the ports there. He looked a little thoughtful. Or maybe Grif was just imagining things.

Turning his attention back to the episode they were supposed to be watching he decided to break the tension and barked out a laugh, pulling open the bag of chips, "Jesus, that poor fucking dog!"

That seemed to bring Simmons back to reality and he looked up at the makeshift screen.

On it was said dog, some kind of fluffy purse one, Pomeranian? Whatever breed it was, it was also the shittiest alien ever. They'd just stuck some sparkly antenna and a giant ass paper mache horn on the poor thing. Currently, it was being held by Spock, for a guy without emotions he still looked like he pitied the runt.

"Know what?" Grif mused, "You should be Spock, for like Halloween or some shit."

His teammate laughed, "I was when I was _six_."

"For real?" Grif asked through a mouthful of chips, "I was Kirk one year. Think I was eight? Sucked, no one knew who I was. Peasants."

"That doesn't surprise me for some reason." there was a noticeable pause before Simmons seemed to screw his courage and held his hand out expectantly for some chips.

My my, getting brave are we?

Grif tilted the bag in his direction, amused at the surprisingly small handful the other man grabbed. Well, small for him. Or maybe Simmons was trying not to push his luck by taking too many?

  
          "You know," Simmons chimed near the end of the episode, in between comments and jokes and the occasional chip, "they're supposed to be a couple."

"Kirk and Spock?" Grif grinned, "Didn't know you were a shipper."

"No, I'm serious!" Simmons stuck his tongue out at him like a brat, they weren't _drunk_ drunk, but the beers had clearly made them brave and goofy, "Gene Roddenberry said he'd wanted them to be a couple but the network wouldn't let him because people in the 1960's were assholes. So while he couldn't show it he always wrote them as though they were dating."

Grif tilted his head at the screen, "See, that just raises a bunch of questions though. Not that I don't believe you, you are a master level nerd, but, if that's true then why does Kirk sleep with all those girls?"

Simmons poked his shoulder playfully as he reached over him for the chip bag, "Aaaactually, he doesn't. He makes out with a bunch of them, yeah, but it's not as many as you think, and unless I'm super wrong, he doesn't sleep with a single one." he made a face at the bag's contents, already more than half empty, "It's probably mostly the executives pushing for it, probably Shatner too."

"What a bunch of butts!" Grif took the chips back once Simmons had his handful, "Hmm, think that canonically that means Spock doesn't care if he cheats?"

"Well maybe to him it isn't cheating? For humans at least, our opposition to it is based on biology and emotions." oh look, the science channel, "You feel hurt or jealous because we're mostly a monogamous animal. Spock is only half human and maybe Vulcans don't view it the same way? Or maybe they have an agreement and Spock is fine with it because he can look at it critically and knows Kirk is ultimately loyal? Like they both get something out of this?"

Grif hummed, "This is the gayest conversation we've ever had."

Simmons nodded sagely, "We can't tell Donut."

"Agreed." Grif said as stoically as he could, "He can never know about the naked glitter dimension or Star Trek."

Both of them burst out laughing again.

  
          An episode and a half later Grif concluded that this movie night had been fun. Was fun. Still not over yet. Probably would be soon though, didn't have a watch but it was probably close to 2 am, if not past that. He was feeling pretty sleepy, the sort of sleepy that made you not want to move much, even to turn your head. Every time he managed to glance over Simmons was still awake, though he looked drowsy, maybe struggling a little to stay up.

He should probably leave... Let the dork sleep, he got up at like the ass-crack of dawn right?

He heard a sort of half mumble from his right, a semi shifting sort of sound, then felt a light thump against his shoulder.

Gathering his willpower Grif turned his head the fraction it took to look and came face to face with a landscape of messy red half curls.

Huh... That would be Simmons' head then. Against his shoulder? Hmm... Must have finally fallen asleep then. Probably meant he should go too...

If he tilted his head forward juuuust a little, no, back up, too far, there we go! If he was like that, he could see Simmons' face. He looked different, being asleep and all. It wasn't something Grif saw very often, in fact, the only times he could recall right now were... Once, when they first got here and hadn't figured out the 'sun never sets' thing, their sleep schedules were all fucked up and he'd found Simmons passed out over a report on the kitchen table. Second, was a bit after their surgery when Simmons got really sick and was bedridden for almost a week.

Neither had been particularly good situations so maybe it shouldn't have surprised him that on both occasions Simmons had looked pained, worried, and just plain unhappy.

Though he could hardly be blamed for assuming Simmons might just have resting bitch face.

Guess he was wrong? Or maybe his shoulder was just that comfortable because right now he looked... Happy? Maybe not happy... He didn't look like he was smiling... Peaceful maybe? Mmm, maybe not, that was a thing people said at funerals...

 _Relaxed_ was probably the better word because for once he didn't look worried or nervous, irritated or mad. His brow wasn't furrowed and his eyes weren't scrunched up, still had wicked bruising under them, but unfortunately, that was probably a permanent feature at this point.

His breathing was soft and steady and every once and a while he'd make a soft muttering sound. It was kind of... Well, it kind of made his chest feel tight? But like in a good way?

 

          Honestly, he'd kind of noted Simmons' odd attractiveness the first time he'd seen him without his armor all the way back at his second time in basic. But it was just a passing thing. It had to be. If they were back on earth, just civilians, Grif would probably have tried picking the guy up, maybe a date or two if he'd decided he liked him. But they weren't civilians. They were soldiers in this whole bullshit war, despite the gridlock in the dull as dirt place they were in now things could change at any time. They could be transferred suddenly with no reason given, or things could suddenly go ass end up and one of them could die. The colony had taught him that, tank had reinforced it. Not to mention, and this was the big important thing, Grif did _not_ want to be here, so if the opportunity arose to get the fuck out and go home? He'd take it. That would mean leaving this place and everyone in it behind and he'd never see them again.

So that was that.

Besides, not like either of them were particularly nice people, may have been the nicest here but that was like comparing different kinds of shit, some might stink less but it was still shit.

 

          With a soft sigh, Grif shuffled a little and sat up enough to grab the wireless mouse and pause the video, lobbing it to land next to the laptop afterward, being as gentle as one could when tossing something. He could do that at least, worth it to not have Simmons bitch that he left it playing and it woke him up or something.

Speaking of, the question now was, could he slip away without waking Simmons up? Lord knew the guy was in desperate need of sleep, like a lifetime worth of naps.

So maybe if he moved a bit this way... Just sort of slunk... No more to... Yeah, this way. Like a god damn gymnast! Give him the gold medal! Couldn't leave Simmons sitting up though, he was not nearly high ranking enough in the napping arts to wake up without a massive pain in his neck.

Again, no desire to hear the bitching.

Okay... Now, if he pushed him and bit and held onto his sleeve then maybe he could at least get him laying down...then toss a blanket on him and vamoose.

 

!!!

 

          Grif let out a choked and muffled (and very manly) squeak of alarm when something clamped down on his wrist yanking him forward in such a way he had to brace himself with his other hand, leaving him in an awkward position not quite looming over his sleeping teammate.

His fearful expression was lit up in a moderate red light as he was brought almost face to face with a singularly glowing red eye.

Simmons' robot eye to be exact. Thing gripping his wrist was no doubt the robot hand, attached to the robot arm.

It was looking _right_ at him. The eye. Not Simmons, not the arm (duh), just the eye, and the distinction was important because he could also see the rest of his teammate's face and his other eye was still closed, face still relaxed, and his breathing was still normal.

_Jesus Christ and his son Santa!_

"Uh... H-hi?" Grif quietly stammered.

Oh boy... _Oooooh boy_... Holy shit! Um... What should he do?! What **was** this?

He was so close to the thing, the eye, it flicked minutely in different directions for a moment before locking squarely back onto him. This close he could see each of the individual, paper thin, delicate, little plates that made up the iris, fanning open, and then abruptly contracting, fluttering slightly in precise adjustments. He could see the little fibrous lights embedded in the outer edges and seams, and despite the internal eerie glow in what would have been the pupil, he could see the faint glint of a lens and just the barest suggestion of another iris within that.

He was broken from this spell by the grip on his wrist tightening to just shy of painful and a distressed sound escaped him unbidden.

The iris opened wide at the sound and an almost instinctive revulsion shot down Grip's spine when the hand gripping his wrist _shifted_. That was the only way to describe it, pressure eased of in specific spots and parts under the palm and in the fingers, which moved in ways that a human hand very much could not.

 _What the fuck?!_ Like for real what the hell was happening?!

And why did he feel like he'd been caught breaking in by someone's _dog_?

"Hey," he whispered, voice a little shaky, he felt wide awake now but his head was still muddled by alcohol so he was struggling to think of what to say, or at least anything that didn't sound stupid, "hey dude. Come on." like that for example.

Why was he trying to plead his case with an eye anyway? And why was he trying to be quiet? Shouldn't he wake Simmons up?

"Come on, let go. Please?" robot eyes did not respond to polite requests it seemed, "I'm not doing anything bad, I swear. " the grip relaxed just a little, "I'm just going to bed, let go and I'll leave, promise."

The grip re-tightened.

_I'm sorry, what?_

"I mean... I'll _stay_...?"

The grip relaxed nearly to the point of letting go.

**_I'M SORRY, WHAT?!_ **

This might be the most bizarrely absurd thing that had ever happened to him. At least so far.

Maybe he was drunker than he thought? Had he ever been drunk enough to hallucinate stuff like this before...? Well maybe, yeah, but not after only **three** mostly passable beers!

 

          So... Summation. Simmons' robo eye did not want him to leave. That's what was actually happening right now? Right? _Like for fucking real?_

Um... So... Did that mean he should stay? Was that okay?

He really probably should be waking Simmons up. That would be so awkward, especially given the position they were in. Simmons would probably assume he was defending himself in his sleep.

But if he woke up with them both in the same bed....

Probably could just pass it off as 'no big, I fell asleep too.'.

But that was a lie so did that make him a creeper? A creepy creeper?

But he was kind of being manhandled here...

And the idea was not repulsive or anything. It was nice having another person nearby sometimes. Didn't they learn that in biology back in high school or some shit? Humans need casual contact to stay healthy?

But...

Ugh. Why was this so difficult? If this was like the couch or something he wouldn't think twice about staying. If it was his own bed he wouldn't give two shits. But this wasn't _his_ bed it was _Simmons_ ' bed and for someone like Simmons, beds had implications and so something that should have been simple suddenly wasn't, especially since the person in question was also not letting him **leave**!

 **Fuck**.

He was such a damn coward... He should just wake him up and not care or stay and not care. But he did.

Grif took a deep breath and let it out in an even deeper sigh.

"Hey," he did his best to make eye contact, "tell me I'm not taking advantage of you. This isn't going to be weird?"

The eye just stared at him. Unblinking.

Of course, it did, eyes don't talk, stupid.

"Blink once for 'yes', twice for 'no'?"

The eye flickered slightly then blinked once.

Twice.

God he could weep in relief, "You better be telling the truth or I'm sticking a magnet to you. Got it?"

The eye blinked.

Well alright then.

 

          With an only mostly sarcastic huff Grif carefully extracted his hand from the cybernetic grasp and plopped himself down on the bed beside his weirdly sleeping, but not sleeping, but in fact still sleeping, teammate.

He didn't bother trying to get the blanket out from under them, it was warm enough without it, instead, he just stuck his arm under the pillow, closed his eyes, and did his best to get comfortable.

He heard a quiet shuffling and a muttered sigh, moments later there was a bump and light pressure against his sternum. Cracking an eye open he saw what he expected, red curly fluff, just barely visible now in the darkness. Simmons had rolled over and was sort of using him as a pillow now. There wasn't any red glow so 'guard dog' must have shut off. Stupid eye.

Unless he'd imagined that? He'd felt so awake not long before but now that his panic had passed sleep bared down on him like a ton of bricks. Maybe it was a weird half dream caused by staying up so late paired with the snacks and booze. Could be...?

Whatever. He was too tired now, and this was kind of nice... Reminded him of when his sister was little in a way. When she'd had trouble sleeping and would pop into his room in the middle of the night looking for someone to hold her and chase the monsters away. Just looking to feel safe. The feeling was different though, with Kai it was a platonic thing, sibling thing, this was... well it wasn't that.

Already starting to drift off he distantly felt an arm drape itself over his side and automatically returned the gesture. Felt nice.

He was not going to be surprised if he woke up to Simmons clinging to him like some weird ass body pillow... Whatever. As long as he didn't make it weird, who cared?

 

_Of course, I like to hug you! You're basically a big teddy bear Dex!_

_I am not. Stop it or I'll make you go back to your room._

_His sister giggled._

 

It would be fine. People did this all the time. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why am I never happy with the way I end chapters? 
> 
> For those who are curious, a Dakimakura is a kind of body pillow from Japan that usually has an anime character printed on it. 
> 
> As for Simmons' 'guard dog' moment it's based off of something from the series. After he becomes a cyborg it is mentioned on more than one occasion that Simmons is now prone to wandering off while sleeping or just doing random things that he doesn't remember. I see this as being that while his conscious mind goes to sleep his unconscious doesn't, since robots and AI don't sleep, so it's a bit like sleep walking in a sense. 
> 
> As always if you have a gift idea you'd like to see toss it my way! And thank you for all the wonderful comments! Your feedback is super helpful and gives me creative fuel! ~ Much love, CC


	5. Possession is 9/10ths of Love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you're really that desperate you can always... Sell your body? ...I guess?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess staring Sheila and Lopez!
> 
> Apologies in advance for terrible Spanish, all I have is google translate ^^0 I did my best to get it right, I hope...
> 
> Chapter warnings: There's a bit of body dysphoria and self harm/gore in this chapter... Maybe? I say maybe because the person in question isn't human and I think this is more like that scene that's always in cliche movies about teen girls? Like when the man character tries to be preppy and then sees her face in the mirror and starts desperately trying to get the makeup off? I think it's more like that. However I still wanted to give you guys a heads up!

 

 

          The sun beat down like it always did, dead center in the sky like it always was. It was probably just as scorching as it had been yesterday, and the day before, and the day before, and the day be-

Simmons wasn't paying any attention to that though. Well, he wasn't really paying attention to anything actually, he was just kind of staring at his feet as they crunched along in the half-dead grass and rocky dirt. He was supposed to be on short-range patrol/recon, but his heart just wasn't in it, too wrapped up in his distressed and looping thoughts.

  
Twelve hours.

It had been twelve _hours_ since the movie night.

 

          How had he managed to fuck up so badly?! This should have been a surefire success! How was he even going to look Grif in the eye now? Well... They were in their armor most of the time so visors sort of solved that problem... If he really set his mind to it he could even schedule things so he and Grif were never assigned to anything at the same time ever again!

No. That wouldn't work... It was his job to supervise Grif, make sure he wasn't slacking off. Sarge had trusted him with that job and it wouldn't do to let him down, even if he was, well... Odd. Besides he, well he kind of didn't mind, maybe even sort of liked being around Grif, sometimes. He was fun to talk to and he could be nice, on occasion. Like with the tattoo.

Someday, Simmons knew, Grif would get sick of him, or he'd make one mistake too many and he'd ditch him. That was just the way of things. He just, just really, really hoped this wasn't that time. It was very selfish but, he hoped he'd have a little longer...

He couldn't believe he'd fallen asleep! He'd been intending to tell Grif when he couldn't stay up anymore, but he'd just kept thinking he could make it just a bit longer, just 'till the end of the episode. Great fucking job there Dicky!

He remembered waking up feeling oddly well rested, there was something warm, pressed against him and wrapped around him and he was holding it so close, and for the first few moments of wakefulness, he'd been hit with a feeling of nostalgia. The warmth and mild weight of the big down comforter from his bedroom when he was little, warm and cozy when it snowed outside, a contrast to the crisp cold air.

It was such a strong feeling that it made him jolt and jerk up in his bed, unsure of where he was.

See, it would have been embarrassing enough if he'd only fallen asleep. But oooooh no. Instead, he'd woken up pressed against Grif, clinging to his arm like some sort of... Of annoying, needy, clingy, (did he mention clingy?) octopus!

Not to mention he'd slept through his alarm! HIM! He'd have to buckle down and work overtime to get that blemish off of his perfect record... But, but it was just... He had been so comfortable! Like, Grif apparently radiated heat like a furnace, probably because of his size, probably why he was sweltering all the time!

Well no, that wasn't fair. Grif was overheating because his suit's AC was broken, that part was 100% the Hawaiian's own fault, no need to poke fun at his appearance. He wasn't the one who made him sleep in either, not that that would have been surprising but given who was latched on to who, for once Grif didn't deserve any guff. Especially since the larger man hadn't flipped out at him when he woke up.

Which was actually kind of surprising. As soon as Simmons had realized the position he was in and who was there and that Grif was very much awake (shock and awe), he'd expected yelling. But, there hadn't been, his teammate had regarded him flatly, mock saluted him, and said, "Sup."

Needless to say, Simmons had been absolutely stricken with embarrassment. His face burning as he stammered out apologies, trying to scramble up so Grif could escape him, pleading forgiveness for what was surely his fault.

But, unexpectedly, Grif had cut him off with one raised hand and rubbed his eyes with the other, grumbling about it being way too early for this shit, and pointing out that, while unanticipated, this kind of thing happened sometimes. Don't make it weird. Chill.

Simmons supposed Grif must be right... He had to admit, begrudgingly, that the other man had a lot more experience with social and... Um... Romantic? Well, no, probably more uh, physical, interaction (it was hard to imagine Grif being romantic, like honestly) than he did. So, he'd know the difference between something the just happened and something inappropriate. Right?

If he thought about it, Simmons seemed to recall reading something somewhere about this exact thing! You know, humans were social animals, there was safety and security in numbers. So if you had two or more people sleeping within reach of one another they tended to gravitate together until they were touching, or even, well um, something that might resemble cuddling?

So it made sense! It was a completely innocent biological instinct that they couldn't control while asleep!

So there was no need to feel guilty!

...

......

… Except he did.

  
So now he had to think of a way to say sorry that wasn't overly desperate or off-putting. He'd never live it down if it was.

So really this just compounded into another failure, but really was that surprising?

  
         

          At least he knew that they could watch movies or shows without it being a disaster. Perhaps next time they were able they could watch Star Wars? The original trilogy for sure. The three prequels... He could very much do without those, and Grif didn't seem the type who would like them. Oh lord, he really hoped he wasn't! They were so bad! Hmm... Perhaps they could watch them, for riffing purposes? The third trilogy might be tricky, it was made so long after, not to mention it had all those offshoots and spin-offs and some of those were great! But that was a pretty hard shift, so it was a bit divisive.

... Of course, it was unsurprising that it had gone that route given how many versions and edits and other nonsense the original three had had. Man, he'd had to save up his meager allowance, all his birthday money, and what tiny sum he had saved in the bank to buy that one unaltered boxset he'd stumbled on for auction on the net when he was little.

His dad had been pissed off at the blatant waste, but Simmons had managed to keep them since as his mother had pointed out, it was his money to waste.

... Hadn't stopped his dad from punishing him though... A week's grounding loaded with chores and a stinging backside to boot. But that's just how things were. That's how you knew things had value, by how much you were willing to give, how much you had to suffer, had to work, to get them.

And the reverse was true as well. His father had always worked so very hard, for him and for his mother, and for all the people that were his responsibility. The older he got the longer and longer Father's job would have to take him from home. So he must become a son worthy of that kind of hard work and sacrifice.

He'd obviously failed spectacularly at that so far, but surely he'd succeed if he just tried hard enough? He'd follow Sarge's orders and work hard as he could and eventually command would promote him and he'd work even harder and eventually be promoted again and show that he was worth all the trouble.

His father would be proud, he'd pat him on the shoulder, maybe he'd even smile? And he'd say, "I knew you could do it."

Yes. It would all be worth it in the end. Even if it was difficult now (especially if it was). Even if Donut just constantly wasted time and wasn't as attentive to his job as he should be. Even if it made him seethe internally when Grif just slacked off and made more work for him, or somehow always got what he wanted despite that.

Mad as they made him, unfair as they may seem, they were not his problems. They would get bit on the ass for them eventually. He just needed to do his job, and maybe even theirs, and show his worth.

Yes.

And despite his slacker "who gives a shit?" attitude, Grif still deserved repayment for his mistakes, and gratitude for his kindnesses.

Perhaps rewarding those would encourage more positive behavior too? It could happen... At least technically speaking...

So no more feeling sorry for himself! He would figure it out!

Yes!

  
Determination in hand Simmons squared his shoulders and raised his head, ready to tackle the task before him-!

  
And came face to face with the barrel of a very large gun (a canon if you will) attached to a very large tank.

Oh...

 

          Simmons made a strangled, stammered, sound.

Oh god! Oh, fuck! He- how could he have not noticed a fucking _tank_!? Tanks weren't stealthy! They were **tanks**! And now he was going to die because he was a colossal fucking idiot!

"Hello."

_Here lies Richard 'Dick' Simmons, he was so stupid that he walked right into a tank!_

"Simmons?"

Wait, what?

"Huh?" he warbled stupidly.

"I said, 'Hello'.”, the tank ( **TANK!** ) replied, in it's, oddly melodic, flat, feminine, voice, the muzzle of the cannon bobbing in an animated fashion, "Then I said your name, as it seems you did not hear me. You are Private Simmons, yes?"

"I-I uh, yes, yes, yes I am!" The Red stammered, a little too loud. He cleared his throat, "Hello?"

"Hello." it, she? Was it okay to assume? She. Repeated cheerfully.

There was an awkward silence.

"Are you...uh... Are you going to kill me?" _...idiot!_

Could a turret tilt in curiosity? "Not unless you were a threat to Blue base," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Oh." another stretch of awkwardness.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Just patrolling!" Simmons scrambled, (please don't kill me!) "You know! Checking to see if anything changed! If there's anything, um, dangerous." the muzzle nodded (it nodded!) and turned a foot or so away from him and Simmons felt like he could melt into a puddle of relief, like a cartoon character.

There was a pause and the turret twitched just a fraction in his direction, "So, uh..." he hurried, "What are you doing out here?" oh dear lord, why was he trying to have a conversation with it!? Her! Damn, it don't be rude!

"I was taking a walk! Well, a drive." she replied, "Not a patrol really, though I would deal with any threats I found."

"O-oh, yes, of course."

"Actually," she sounded almost shy, "I was hoping that I might see that dashing robot you have on your team." the tank giggled, "Isn't that silly?"

"Oh, well, I don't know." Simmons squirmed, "I don't think it's silly to hope to see someone. Even if you aren't on the same team. Uh, ma'am."

"Please, call me Sheila!"

"Okay, um, Sheila." was his life real right now? Like had he collapsed from heat stroke or something?

"Do you require company on your patrol?" Sheila queried.

Simmons blinked, wait, what? "What? Why?... I mean, are you allowed to do that?"

"As long as you are not a direct threat to Blue team or their base." the tank reiterated, as though it was obvious and he was just an idiot (which he was), "You also appeared to be distracted and distressed, it seemed like you may benefit from someone to talk to." the tank did that odd not head tilt with her turret. (was she the tank? Like the _tank_ , tank? Or just the AI _in_ the tank?) "And I don't have any mission myself at the moment, outside of my previously standing orders."

"O-oh," saying that a lot today, "I, okay, I guess that's fine?" was it? Well probably best not to upset her, and as long as he didn't share any sensitive Red Team secrets it should be okay right? And maybe she'd let slip some intel by mistake?

"Wonderful!" Sheila trilled, rotating slowly and moving along at what was probably an aggravatingly slow crawl for her, but a pace Simmons could easily keep up with.,"Is it alright to ask what is bothering you?” she queried a minute or two later, “Private Caboose often enjoys talking about his troubles. If I am not mistaken it's healthy for humans to do so?"

"Uh, well, it's not that big a deal." Simmons protested, "I'm just," he gestured with a free hand, "Stuck, on a problem."

"A math equation?" Sheila asked.

"God, I wish!" the cyborg barked out a laugh, "That would be so much simpler! It's a personal problem. I'm trying to, I guess you'd say 'repay' someone, but I can't get it right."

"I understand that interpersonal problems are difficult for humans. Does this other person, your teammate I assume, not enjoy your method of repayment?"

"No, they do, at least I'm pretty sure they do. It's that things aren't going the way they should, I keep making mistakes." Simmons sighed, "I guess I'm just unlucky..."

The turret swiveled a little in his direction, "That's surprising, Private Simmons, I did not expect you to subscribe to 'luck'."

For just a moment the redhead had the wild notion that the Blue tank had seen Star Wars at some point before he realized what she probably actually meant (much to his embarrassment), "I, well, I guess I don't really. Just, sort of feels that way sometimes. I know it's all causality..." he cocked his head, "You don't believe in luck, Sheila?"

"I am incapable of feeling that sensation. I understand it as a concept but it is not one I possess."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"It's alright, I am not offended." she assured him, "I am not what would be referred to as a... ' _Smart_ ' AI." that part actually sounded disdainful, "I do not possess the emotions and freedoms that they do."

Ouch, that made him feel kind of shitty.

"However just because I don't possess human emotions and am bound to my programming doesn't mean I don't have things I desire or dislike." she explained, "For example, I desire the company of your team's robot, Lopez, I enjoy my interactions with him. They create sensations and input I find pleasing. If I were to assign a human emotion to it I suppose it would be 'love'." she said wistfully.

For a moment Simmons didn't know how to respond, he felt kind of... Awed by that response. And now he was reminded of Star Trek.

"Wow, Sheila." he finally said, almost reverently, "That's actually really impressive. Most people can't admit things like that. Even crazy confidant people."

"I suppose I can see why. Emotional wounds seem to harm humans easily. I don't know if I would have such an issue..." the tank contemplated, "If it were to harm me, and the one responsible was on my team I would be unable to do more than voice my displeasure. If they were not, I imagine I would shoot them."

Simmons flinched, "Yikes..."

 

          After a time, during which they'd traveled a semi wobbly route a fair way along the canon's middle, where Simmons kept to the side of Sheila that was facing Red Base, lest a trigger-happy Blue sniper notice and think he was trying to abscond with their tank; said tank spoke up once more.

"Is it possible to repay your teammate in a similar way to what you are thanking them for?"

"No," Simmons admitted, "I don't have that kind of skill, plus I don't think they need it."

"Do you know what things they like?" Sheila queried, "Private Caboose likes to bring me gifts, sadly I am unable to make use of them, but the effort is nice."

"Yeah, it just seems too simple or too difficult to justify trying to get." he admitted, "What does Caboose give you?" probably drawings, Caboose liked to draw, he left enough of them at their base when he randomly visited. Because why the fuck wouldn't he, right?

"Originally he gave me drawings he made, but there isn't any room for them in my cockpit."

Ha! Called it!

"Recently he has tried to give me snacks."

"Snacks?"

"Yes, a few kinds, cookies most often, recently he has brought me ice cream bars, I cannot eat them, so they have just been sitting in my cold storage container."

"Ice cream!?" _really?!_ "How, how did he get _that!?_ " oh man, he'd been trying to figure out how to convince Red command to send snack items, and ice cream had seemed impossible! But apparently, the Blue army just handed that shit out like... Like ice cream!

Sheila slowed to a gentle stop, "Would it be correct to assume, from your reaction, that this would be something your teammate would enjoy?"

"Absolutely!"

"Would you like them?"

Seriously!? How lucky was this!? "You'd just give them to me?"

There was a soft melodic hum from the giant machine, "Ah, that is a good point, it is customary to trade for things you want, isn't it?"

Ah crap, just had to put his foot in his mouth, didn't he?

"I guess so..." but really would he feel right about it if he just got them for nothing? If he didn't earn them? "What did you want for them?"

Sheila was quiet for a moment, he could hear a faint whirring and ticking from her, that he hadn't heard while they were talking. Was she thinking?

"I think I have a solution!" she declared a moment later, "It is something that I believe only you are qualified for."

Oh! Well, that was fine! Perhaps she wanted to be debugged? An error that needed fixing? It was highly unlikely that any of the blues were tech savvy! This was perfect!

"I would like to borrow your body."

He could- I'm sorry, what?!

"Huh?" he asked stupidly, he must have heard her wrong. "I- wait- you want to borrow?"

"Your body, yes."

Askshdjshaj?!

"What? How? Why me?!"

"Is it that unexpected? Its true that under normal circumstances this would not be possible unless I was a 'smart' AI, you are however markedly different from other humans in the canyon. You have a considerable amount of hardware and I believe I could temporarily install myself in your systems." she chuckled, "You are also quite brazenly broadcasting your specs; they are quite fetching."

Despite having no idea what that was supposed to mean, the way she said it had Simmons' face burning, "...What would you do?" god, was he really considering this?

"Well, other than having it be a unique experience for me? As I expressed earlier I have grown fond of Lopez, I would like to spend time with him. An afternoon's worth would be fair, wouldn't it? If its just this one time."

"So you..." he _was_ considering it, "you want to borrow my body, to go on a **date** with **Lopez**?" things of value only have value based on what you were willing to give for them.

"Correct."

Simmons fidgeted, "How do I know you'll give it back..?" how much are you willing to sacrifice for it?

"I suppose all I have is my word. But if it helps at all I think that being a tank is far more suited to doing my job than a human body, no matter how mechanical it is."

Oh, "Good point..." the redhead bit his lip, "you won't do anything, um, weird right?"

"Are you referring to sexual intimacy?"

Simmons made a sound like a room full of dying cats.

"That would be interesting to experience, organics do generally center the whole of their lives around it. But, I would not do such a thing without express permission, it is a delicate subject after all."

The new noise the Red made was only like five dying cats.

"I will restrict my activities to only publicly acceptable displays of affection. Is that better?"

One dying cat.

"I..." so just how much is this worth? "Just, don't let anyone besides Lopez know it's you, okay?"

There was the sound of compressed air and the body of the tank did a little 'hop', "Of course!"

Wow... She sounded so happy. He actually felt a little bit good about that.

"If we encounter any of your teammates I will return control immediately! Being confined would ruin my date!"

"Uh... Yeah." Simmons tried to muster up his courage, what would this be like? Like the O'Malley incident? Different? "How do we do this?" it had been the radio before right? The long range? Did he need to risk turning it on?

He jumped a bit when the metal grating covering the cockpit opened with a hiss.

"In order to download myself, we will require a port to port, connection. There should be some cables stored in my compartments in the cockpit. It may also provide a better experience for you in case you were to fall over."

Made sense...

Taking the few steps over to Sheila's side, Simmons reached for the grip to climb up and hesitated.

"If you want to reconsider-?" Sheila began.

"No!" Simmons started, "Sorry, no. I'm just nervous... Sorry."

She was silent and honestly, Simmons was kind of grateful for that, as he hauled himself up and into the cockpit, settling in the oddly plush seat.

 

          For a moment or two, he simply surveyed the various controls and panels around him, mentally noting what each one did, how it checked out against the manual. Yes, he'd read that one too. Several times. Could probably field strip the tank.

...okay well maybe not. He wasn't a mechanic. And you couldn't actually field strip a tank... Unless you could? Sarge probably could.

"You're um... Very well constructed?" was that a compliment? Or was that like a creepy cat call? Like the difference between, "You're looking very nice today." and "Hey hot stuff!"?

"Thank you." the tank replied, her voice coming out of the internal speakers, "You should find connector cables in the diagnostics compartment on your right near the floor."

"Okay. Umm..." he shifted and searched, finding the long, thin, cover and sliding it up, immediately spotting several neatly stored cords and a few pieces of diagnostics and debugging equipment.

The cyborg jumped a little when the tank rumbled and started to move.

"Apologies," Sheila chirped, "I am moving us so I won't be left out in the open while we're away."

"No big deal," Simmons nervously assured her, "I would be worried too!" he _was_ worried too, but for different reasons.

Okay, he needed... Looked like all of these had a male micro USB adapter on one end so that meant he'd need one with one at each end for the female port on the back of his neck...

Okay... Deep breaths. He'd had to plug himself into equipment before, for checkups and debugging and general maintenance. It would be fine. He'd do this, get a genuine hard-earned gift for Grif, and maybe later it would become an amusing story to share.

Inhale. Exhale.

Popping off his helmet didn't help his nerves much but he was still determined. That's what courage was, right? He set it on his lap and went about shifting the collar of the under-suit down his neck a little so he could feel around for the port.

In the back. A bit to the left... Near the base of his skull... The metal plate there had a thin seam. A bit of pressure and it slid down with a faint click, he could feel the data port, in the center, next to the other sets of plugs for various kinds of cables. With an ease born of a concerning amount of practice in such a short time, he clicked the cable into place.

He didn't even have a chance to ask where he was supposed to plug in the other end before a small panel similar in design to the one on his neck (standard issue my friends, standard issue, less expensive that way) slid open near the left side of the base of the middle dashboard, with a soft mechanical zip.

He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way his stomach was trying to plummet into another reality, or the blocks of ice his arms seemed to be turning into and quickly snapped the other end of the cable in place.

He didn't realize he'd clenched his eyes shut until he opened them cautiously.

"Do I, do I need to do anything?" he croaked timidly.

[REQUEST FOR FILE TRANSFER RECEIVED. ACCEPT?]

Okay... So how did he... Not like there was a button...

God, he barely even knew how to do a diagnostic or a defrag or- and that was always on a laptop or some external device.

_It's fine._

Simmons shook his head at the vague sense of dizziness that passed over him accompanied by an icy hot prickle along his scalp, from the back of his neck to the top of his head.

Huh?

_It's fine._

It's fine?

_Relax._

What?

_It's fine._

[TRANSFER ACCEPTED. DOWNLOAD IN PROGRESS.]

[...10%]

Wait. Had he-?

_It's fine._

[...30%...]

But-

_Relax._

[...60%]

_It's fine._

...Its... Fine?

[80%...]

_Relax._

...Relax.

[...90%]

_It's fine._

It's fine.

[100%]

It's fi-

  
*****

Lopez was a man of simple pleasures. In that, he was a robot of simple pleasures.

Namely that simplest and greatest of pleasures, peace, and quiet, and being left alone.

Which was why he only mildly grumbled when he had to repair the Warthog. _Again_.

What had it been this time? Who even knew. Plating warped. Cracks and breaks in critical parts. Electronics fried. ...somehow the vehicle was completely filled with mud. From the interior to the engine block.

Where had they even FOUND mud out here in what was only one incredibly stubborn tree and some grass away from being a desert?

On the downside, this meant hours, potentially even days, of repairs, if there turned out to be more damage under all the filth that he hadn't seen yet. On the upside that meant hours, potentially even days, where he could be left alone to work in peace.

(Unless Sarge decided to come and.... 'help'... Ugh...)

So when a distinctive blip associated with one particularly tall idiot made itself known on his short range sensors and something about the way it was broadcasting caused him to look up, he groaned.

Looked like the tall, stupid, one was returning from patrol early, which was never a good sign, and, unless he was imagining it, was making a somewhat unstable beeline towards him. Also not a good sign.

Damn it... Just one day could he not be roped into something stupid? Please? If Simmons was injured (he seemed to be wobbling and pausing for balance every few steps. So maybe he was drunk? Would be slightly surprising but not impossible. ) But if he _was_ hurt why come to him? He was no doctor and just because he was a mechanic didn't mean he could fix any damage to the cyborg's artificial parts.

...Well, not like anyone here could actually fix them (Sarge included) so guess he was shit out of luck.

Maybe that wasn't actually Simmons? Something about the way he moved? Or the way his signal was reading? Just something was... Wrong? Off? Different? Could the timid man have gotten captured and now the Blues were trying to infiltrate their base using his stolen armor?

Wonderful, now he was sounding like Sarge. Too much time around the crazy old man.

 

          Looked like he wasn't going to be able to avoid whatever numbskullery this was because Simmons seemed to have spotted him and after throwing a wide a somewhat janky wave his way had broken into a full run, stumbling a couple times and nearly eating the dirt as he raced towards him. It took only a few seconds before the cyborg stumbled to a stop, well more slowed down enough not to brain himself when he smacked head-on into the side of the warthog with a weirdly high pitched, "Whoa!".

The lanky man was laughing- no! Giggling- when he hauled himself up.

"Oh, my! That was interesting!"

Okay, no something had to be wrong because that did not sound like Simmons. Well, it kind of did, but in a trying to mimic someone else kind of way.

"Hello, Lopez."

Maybe he was malfunctioning because Simmons should never speak to him in such a tender way and such a tone would never ever make his circuits flip like that!

"¿Qué demonios te pasa?" (What the hell is wrong with you?) Lopez asked, backing slowly away from the warthog and the clearly insane man.

The maroon helmet tilted, "Lopez...?" he sounded, hurt. Why did that make him feel bad? Seriously, what was wrong with this guy?!

"Oh." the tall one said suddenly, like he'd had a revelation, "You don't recognize me do you?" he said with a melodic laugh, which absolutely did **not** make Lopez feel irrationally happy!

Lopez hesitantly shook his head.

"It's me, I'm Sheila."

"¿¡Qué!?" (What!?) Lopez might have shrieked.

"What 'n tarnation is going on down there!?" came a grumpy shout from up on top of the base.

"Nada!" (Nothing!) Lopez called back, watching with fascination as Simmons (Sheila?) scampered to hide with his (her?) back against the base wall, so -they...?- would not be seen unless Sarge looked straight down, "Acabo de dejar ... ¿Por qué me molesto en inventar excusas, no puedes entenderme?" (I just dropped... Why am I bothering to make up excuses when you can't understand me?)

The old man barked out a laugh from high above, "Ah Lopez, always such a kidder. But make sure you're focusing on yer work! We need to have the Warthog in fighting shape as soon as possible! Lest those dastardly Blues catch us with our pants down..."

"Lo que sea que diga, viejo loco." (Whatever you say, you crazy old man.) the robot intoned.

"That's the spirit!"

  
With an all too common sigh, Lopez returned his attention to the man who might also currently be the Blue's lustrous and gorgeous tank, who looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh.

"Realmente eres tú, ¿verdad?" (It really is you, isn't it?)

"Yes, it is."

"¿Cómo? ¿Por qué?" (How? Why?)

"I have temporarily downloaded myself into Private Simmons' systems. In exchange for some items I had access to, he agreed that I might borrow his body for the afternoon. So that we might go on a... date?"

"¿Fecha?"(Date?) his vocal module felt glitchy.

"Yes. Though if you are busy I understand. I would be content to watch you work." she took a few steps towards the warthog, "I must admit, however," she ran her finger along the edge of the hood disdainfully, "I did not visualize a date in which I watched you with your hands inside a piece of _inferior_ machinery."

By his maker, that **was** her, really and truly it was, her breathtaking matrix and unfathomably beautiful code apparent even through this construct of meat and scrap.

He had to reboot his vocal module twice before he could reply, "Perdóname. Debo estar equivocado, no te reconocí. Sí. No hay nada que pueda evitar que pase el día contigo. ¡Ni siquiera si mi cabeza fuera removida de mi cuerpo!" (Forgive me. I must be faulty, I didn't recognize you. Yes. There is nothing that could keep me from spending the day with you. Not even if my head was removed from my body!)

Even with the helmet on he could tell she was beaming, her hands curled around his and she held them to her in delight, "Oh Lopez, you can be such a romantic!" she chirped, her voice still charming and soft even filtered through sub-par human vocal cords. This close he had to look up at her but that was fine, she'd always been far taller so in a humanoid body it only made sense she still would be.

"¿A donde quieres ir?"(Where do you want to go?) he asked her, excitement tingling in his circuits.

"Oh! Up to the cliffs, if you don't mind the walk? The paths aren't wide enough for me in most places, I would like to see the view from there."

“Estoy seguro de que palidecería en comparación con usted.” (I'm sure it would pale in comparison to you.) Lopez replied and was rewarded with her lovely laugh, “Si es allí donde quieres ir, iremos.” (If that is where you want to go, we'll go.)

 

*****

 

          The walk to the cliffs was generally a tedious one, while not overly far it was uninteresting and so could easily wear on your nerves.

It would seem, however, that when traveling with a companion the journey was much faster and far more enjoyable.

Sheila had spent the journey getting the hang of walking, for the most part, "I know how to walk because Private Simmons knows how to walk. But it's different to actually do the walking." she'd explained the third time she'd stumbled and had taken hold of Lopez's hand for support. It looked to be that she was simply trying to walk too quickly for her temporary limbs, which made sense, Simmons, he knew, had a fairly long gait and could move pretty fast. (Simmons had taken Track, right? Was he the one who had? Lopez thought he remembered him saying that one of the times he'd fumbled through an attempt at introducing himself or talking to him but he honestly hadn't cared so...It could have been something else.) But that couldn't compare with the speed of a tank.

Not that he minded. Having her temporary hand in his was actually quite nice. He couldn't help giving it a squeeze every once and a while and couldn't explain the delight he felt when she returned it.

 

          When they had reached the overlook proper Sheila selected a smooth outcropping of rock and sat down. He could hear her taking several deep breaths inside the helmet.

"It's different." she panted softly, "I keep forgetting, they need oxygen, I don't think I was breathing enough." Sheila laughed softly and looked down at one of her legs, shifting it from side to side as though examining it, "I seem to have injured myself..."

“¿Necesitas ayuda? ¿Es muy malo? Eres tú-?” (Do you need help? Is it very bad? Are you-?)

Sheila shook her head, "No, no. I don't think it's anything bad..." she thought a moment, "It's- humans don't have diagnostics, I only know there is a malfunction in this limb... Is this pain?"

“Los humanos están mal hechos.”(Humans are poorly made) Lopez agreed, “¿Estás seguro de que no es serio?” (Are you sure it's not serious?)

"No, this is a... Pinch?"

Lopez shrugged when she tilted her head at him. Hell if he knew.

"A pinch," she said more surely, "we climbed too fast I think. It's hard to explain. I have never felt physical pain before... But there doesn't seem to be any feeling of distress... Just, irritation?" she flexed her shoulders in an attempt at a shrug, "It should pass. Humans recover quickly from things like this don't they?"

“He visto a los humanos en el equipo Rojo recuperarse de muchas cosas absurdas. Subir una colina demasiado rápido no parece tan malo en comparación con cuando el idiota rosado tomó una granada en la cabeza, o cuando atropelló al idiota naranja.” (I've seen the humans on Red team recover from a lot of absurd things. Walking up a hill too fast doesn't seem too bad compared to when the pink idiot took a grenade to the head, or when you ran over the orange idiot.)

"That was a traumatic experience for them wasn't it?" Sheila stated calmly, "I saw... Memories? And feelings of fear from Private Simmons when I looked at my own body."

Lopez was unsure of what exactly to say to that, “Eres una máquina muy poderosa querida. Probablemente el más poderoso de todo el cañón, es natural que te tengan miedo.” (You are a very powerful machine, my dear. Probably the most powerful in the entire canyon, its only natural that they would be afraid of you.) he moved to her side, looking down at her as she sat, “Francamente, si no querían estar en peligro o lastimarse, entonces no deberían haberse alistado. ” (Frankly, if they didn't want to be in danger or get hurt, then they shouldn't have enlisted.)

"Well now you're just buttering me up." she teased, "Come, sit by me," she added, patting the rock.

He complied, trying to sit in as relaxed a manner as she seemed to. He wasn't sure if he'd get anything from the view or not, but being close to her like this did feel good.

"I do not detect any Red team signals nearby." Sheila said suddenly, "and we are far from Blue base, it should be safe."

Before Lopez could ask what it was safe for, his date had popped off her helmet and he was greeted with the sight of his teammate's face, hair in disarray and eyes clenched shut.

Slowly the mismatched eyes cracked open, he watched them blink several times and realized it was from the adjustment of tinted visor to bright sunlight.

There was a sharp intake of breath and her borrowed eyes went wide. A wide delighted smile stretched across her face and a flush blossomed on her cheek.

"Oh!" she sighed breathlessly, "This is so different... Do all humans see this way? It's," she struggled for words, "it just **is**. No analysis or display, or different spectrum or-" her organic eye glittered, "I'm sorry. I'm not making sense am I?" she leaned forward a laugh bubbling out of her lips, "Everything looks so small... It's so bright. I think my body is over there... I see why humans built things like us. There's so much they can't see and you can't just scan- what a _fascinating_ way to see everything! It creates such interesting feedback! Oh, Lopez-"

She tore her gaze from the view of the canyon to look at him and the android heard her breath catch again.

Much as he didn't really want to he mentally compared her face to how Simmons' normally appeared. Perhaps inevitable because that _was_ the body Sheila currently occupied, but still. When he'd seen the Maroon idiot with his face exposed he'd always noted how tired he looked. It wasn't just something as simple as the bruising under his organic eye, which was very much still there even though it was Sheila who wore it, but more... Thorough? As though the Maroon soldier's very meta were drained and crumbling. Sheila, beautiful dazzling Sheila, who made him want to do silly things like write poetry and proclaim emotions like love which by their nature couldn't apply to them, only someone so inherently incredible could bring light and life to such an unpleasant face and make it resemble something he might call beautiful.

The way she was looking at him now seemed... Lost? No, more... Surprised? As though she'd turned to look at him and had not seen what she expected?

Perhaps that was true? As she had just said, humans could not naturally perceive all the information they could just at a glance. So as she was right now such information might be seen as clutter. That must be it because she was looking at him as though it was the first time she had ever seen him.

With a look of near alarm she all but tore the glove off of her cybernetic hand and before he could utter a word it was pressed against the side of his helmet, and he recalled some line from some stupid human literature about hands-on cheeks and gloves on hands and if he had lungs he might have forgotten how to breathe with the way she was looking at him.

"Sheila?" (Sheila?) he tried, unable to formulate more because as soon as he'd said her name he found himself wrapped tight in her arms, chest flush with hers, her face pressed against his neck.

His sensors picked up heat and pressure, and the faint hum of her signal, but before he could process it fully she'd disengaged and abruptly yanked herself away.

"Goodness!" she laughed, rubbing at her organic eye, "I'm so sorry! I was, um, overwhelmed. I Suddenly I felt that I should- hug you? Human instincts and impulses are so abrupt!"

She hummed in mild concern, "I think I overstepped my bounds, however. No matter how lovely you may look I should not have done that without asking."

“Esta bien,” (It's alright,) he assured her, “No fue muy largo, pero creo que fue agradable. ¿Probablemente? (It wasn't very long but I think it was nice. Probably?)

She smiled, the blush deepening across her cheek and nose, red wasn't such a terrible color if it made her look like that.

"There was something else I wished to try. I likely won't get the opportunity to again so I was curious." Sheila said suddenly. Was she refusing to look at him? She kept darting glances his way even as she searched through one of the armor's storage packs. Was she embarrassed? Had he said something wrong?

Sheila made a sound of triumph and finally did return his gaze as she held up what she'd been searching for. A plastic packet containing two cookies of some sort.

"Humans seem to enjoy eating and Caboose was particularly adamant as to the importance of cookies. I thought that if I was in a human body I should try some!" she regarded the treats in the bag, "These are... Chocolate and Peanut Butter? Are they good?"

“No lo sé.” (I don't know.) Lopez admitted, “El idiota gordo se comerá cualquier cosa, el extravagante idiota habla incesantemente sobre productos horneados, y el alto idiota, estás pidiendo prestado, se cuela cosas así cuando las tenemos y él piensa que el gordo no se dará cuenta.” (The fat idiot will eat anything, the flamboyant idiot talks ceaselessly about baked goods, and the tall idiot, you're borrowing, sneaks things like that when we have them and he thinks the fat one won't notice.)

"I see," Sheila said with a sort of wonder, as she tore the package open, "The scent seems to be causing some kind of reaction in this body. I believe I very much want to eat these. So interesting!"

 

          She'd been saying that repeatedly, 'interesting', 'different', 'fascinating', but Lopez could hardly blame her. What else could you call it? He also had no idea what being in a human body was like, other than just basic information he'd come online already knowing and things he had observed since then.

Rest assured, he had no desire to _be_ a human, this wasn't some sci-fi where every mechanical or artificial being longed to be like their creators, as though there was something fundamentally lacking about what they were. Humph! He was perfectly content being an AI thank you very much, even if he wasn't considered as ' _advanced_ ' as a ' _smart_ ' AI. Humans were annoying and stupid, arrogant, and just plain disgusting biologically speaking. Not to mention how limited many of their senses were. About the only impressive thing they possessed was a titanic memory capacity, crushing even the most advanced AI in the amount of information they could hold or process.

Which they clearly never bothered to use so there was another strike against them.

But, he also couldn't fault Sheila's choice to take the opportunity Simmons had been stupid enough to offer. One thing of prime value for all human-made AI, 'smart' or not, was new information and stimulus. Some new experience or knowledge to work on, new data to break down, devour and add to yourself. So, of course, she'd ask. Of course, she would.

He likely would too if given the chance. Piggybacking on someone's cybernetic limb would have been an interesting experience by itself but on this!? He'd never seen a human that had had so much of them replaced! Well... He hadn't seen any humans outside of the canyon... But he had no records of a monstrosity like the one Sarge had made of Simmons. To replace _him_ even, ha! It stood to reason that there were probably other humans with bodies like this but given the collective reactions of the Reds (save for Sarge) such a thing was clearly disturbing to them.

Which made it all the more frustrating and obnoxious that the maroon moron walked about broadcasting his specs like he did. Oblivious.

Out of the two of them though, Sheila should rightfully get to have this experience. Each of their bodies had pros and cons, but she did have much harsher limits than he did. Places she couldn't go, tasks she couldn't perform. So he was content to bask in her joy as she took a tentative bite of the cookie and covered her mouth in gleeful embarrassment at the joyous sound of pleasure that came unbidden at the flavor.

Cookies must be good if they elicited reactions like that.

She just about ignored him completely while she ate, taking small bites, alternating between chewing fast or slow, eyes open, eyes closed. Experimenting. Memorizing every aspect of the experience.

When she had finally finished she turned her attention back to him sheepishly, "I'm sorry Lopez. That was rude of me. I got caught up in the moment."

Lopez chuckled the best his voice module allowed, “Estás bien. Fue lo suficientemente agradable para ver. ¿Eran buenos? Pareces muy feliz” (You're fine. It was nice enough to watch. Were they good? You seemed very happy. )

"Oh yes!" Sheila said in delight, "I've never had a sense like taste before. I don't know if I could describe it! Eating creates such a positive feeling all on its own, and preferred flavors increase the response and trigger pathways linked to memories and experiences!"

She leaned towards him and covered his hand with her own, "If you ever have the opportunity you should try it! I very much recommend it!"

Her gaze dropped to where her hand touched his and her expression changed, similar to what it had been before when she had hugged him, softer and wondering.

"Lopez?"

“¿Sí?” (Yes?”

"There was one other thing I was hoping to experience..." the temporarily not a tank asked shyly. Her eyes focused in on his helmet, studying it, "Do you have a separate body under your armor? Or are you hardwired?"

“Yo...” (I...) Lopez hesitated, “Tengo un cuerpo separado, sí. Está directamente conectado a los sistemas de la armadura, por lo que tomaría más tiempo quitarlo por completo. Nunca antes había sido necesario, pero puedo hacerlo.” (I do have a separate body, yes. It's directly connected to the armor's systems, so it would take longer to take it off completely. There's never been a need to before, but I can do it.)

Sheila nodded, shucking the glove on her human hand, hesitating for only a moment before running the pads of her fingers along the jawline of his helmet, surprise flitting across her face at what was certainly a new sensation.

"Do you have a mouth Lopez?" she asked quietly.

The robot was taken aback for a moment, “Sí, pero ¿por qué? Dudo que lo encuentres particularmente atractivo” (I do, but why? I doubt you'll find it particularly appealing.) not to mention... Well, she just wouldn't like it overall.

"I had wondered about the displays of physical affection humans enjoy. I thought perhaps I might... kiss you?" she looked down shyly, "Of course we don't have to, or I could try kissing your helmet if that's easier. I don't want you to do something you don't want to just to satiate my curiosity."

“No tengo problemas para que intentes.” (I don't have a problem letting you try.) Lopez tried to explain, “Simplemente no creo que lo disfrutes.” (I just don't think you will enjoy it.)

"Is it because this body is male?" she asked in surprise.

“¡Por supuesto no!” (Of course not!) why would she think that? The sex of an individual's body artificial or otherwise was irrelevant, for the two of them even more so, sex and gender were human things, organic things. He was 'male' because he'd been constructed to resemble one, called 'he' because he was just used to it if his shell one day resembled a woman and was called 'she' it would be no different. 'Smart' AI developed preferences like that, but that was probably only because they were constructed from human brain scans and could create projected avatars for themselves. Something like that was irrelevant to him and Sheila.

"I'm sorry." Sheila replied, avoiding his gaze, "It must be this body having some kind of effect, I felt so worried ..."

“Él es consciente?” (Is he conscious?) Lopez asked, he hadn't thought to before, but now that he had it was of great importance, “Él ha estado mirando?” (Has he been watching?)

"No." Sheila replied with a shake of her head, "He's... Asleep? Only farther away? Some of my activities have brought up feelings or memories I think, but that seems to be entirely subconscious."

The android felt a rush of relief, “Bueno.” (Good.) he reset his vocoder in a sound like a cough, “No quisiera que él nos vea. Sigo pensando que no te gustará lo que ves” (I wouldn't want him to see us. I still think you won't like what you see.) slowly and hesitantly, he reached up and slowly unclasped his helmet, “Pero, quiero esta experiencia contigo. ¿Estas seguro?” (But, I want this experience with you. You're sure?)

"I'm sure. If it truly is as wonderful as humans think then I want to know what its like, with you."

If he were human Lopez probably would have taken a deep breath, but he wasn't, so he didn't. He wasn't really sure what he was expecting exactly. What was under the helmet couldn't possibly be something humans would find appealing, at least not now. Sheila would probably find it repulsive as well but for the opposing reason.

 

          Lopez was an android. He'd been built to interact with and assist humans, and as such had a humanoid body, two arms two legs, pelvis, torso, head, but that wasn't all. Over the top of all of that and beneath the protective armor plating was a layer of synthetic skin. It wasn't anything special, just a matte black, inter-cut with seams and port covers and some markings that were probably purely aesthetic.

His head though was a different matter.

Never let it be said that humans didn't like looking at themselves; the material of his head was finely textured to mimic real human skin, a warm tan, Hispanic facial features and pigmentation (and yes the irony of his speech set to Spanish was not lost to him), brown eyes, darker brown hair, standard military cut. All in all a likely conventionally attractive human male.

When he'd first come online his programming had made him feel... _Pleased?_ that his creators had given him this appearance, they had to think highly of him considering other simple AI were placed in basic equipment or vehicles or the like.

Over time, however... At first, he'd thought he was glitching, broken in some way because the sight of his face began to upset him. Annoyance first, then anger, and then revulsion; and he had struggled, because his meta wouldn't allow for this, his programming dictated everything and feeling (well he shouldn't feel anything at all) _disgust_ towards his makers was... Impossible. Wasn't it?

Soon after, Lopez had realized that he'd stopped thinking of this skin as his own. What looked back at him when he saw his reflection was just some sick joke. A fraud. A knockoff.

Then, one evening, he'd been left to his own devices and he'd decided to do some basic self-cleaning and upkeep. When he'd been clearing dust and grit from around the seam of his neck his fingers had caught on a small fissure, a place where the faux skin had separated from the material of the rest of his body.

Normally he'd have just sealed it up with epoxy, but, instead, he'd found himself fascinated with it, plucking his fingers over it, taking in the feel and texture, the faint sheen of metal underneath when he'd peered at his reflection in the polished workbench.

He must have been distracted because he couldn't remember when he'd slipped his finger underneath, prying the material up, but it had given him a sudden surge of... Excitement? Whatever it was it had startled him and he'd pulled away too quickly, popping a long split through it all the way up to his jaw.

He'd been struck with concern, slapping his hand over the injury, irrationally thinking in that moment that one of the other Reds would storm in, furious at him for damaging the face they'd been so kind to give him.

In the end, he'd frantically slammed his helmet back on and rushed out of the room, distracting himself with cleaning and repairing equipment, and it was well over a week before he even dared to remove it again.

But he had and... It really didn't seem that bad, you know? He could see loops of supporting metal through the gap, clean and bright and far more pleasing to look at than this.... Hideous mask. He needed a better look, the rubbery false skin was already damaged, it probably would need replacement regardless so, well, if he did something like, say, removed a small strip, it would hardly make it worse, right?

So he had. It felt...good. Very good, to see that centimeter or so strip of silver, see the bands sliding over each other when he turned or tilted his neck and the little flap that had been further dislodged near the base. He'd stopped there though, a feeling of shame overriding everything else. Well, perhaps not shame, just the feeling that he shouldn't have done this, that he would be punished or dismantled, forcibly debugged or reprogrammed. After all, he must be defective if he was glad to have damaged himself!

But, had he? The damage didn't affect his ability to work, it wouldn't cause glitches or let anything into his systems. That wasn't really his face either. So who cared if it was damaged?

The worry had persisted though so he hadn't done anything more that night.

He had three days later though, and two days after that, then another three, then the night after, then the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and-

 

          He'd expected the sharp intake of breath when he set his helmet down, but whether or not that was from surprise or disgust was unclear.

He watched Sheila as her borrowed eyes moved over his face; the somewhat randomly torn off strips of false skin exposing the metal beneath, some in precise lines where he'd taken a knife to it, some in odd gouges where he'd giddily used his bare hands. There was a whole chunk missing from the side of his jaw so you could see the soft mesh that partially surrounded his mouth, the barest glimpse his false, and pointless, teeth, some of which he'd removed. There was a patch or two on top of his head where he'd peeled off the false hair and scalp. There was most of one ear missing. Most of what had covered his neck was gone. She looked critically at his eyes, one was still un-marred but he had peeled off the material from the other lid and popped the carefully detailed lens off the eye itself.

In a way, now that he thought about it, he looked like an odd inverse of Simmons, half human half machine, but in his case it looked like he'd been mauled, ripping and tearing away the facade, exposing what he really was underneath, whereas the lanky moron had a mishmash of metal junk welded to his skin.

Though... Why was that exactly? If humans went through all the trouble of giving him this hyper-realistic mask why didn't they even try to hide their teammate's loss of humanity? It couldn't be a lack of resources, could it? Was this just a human thing then? They couldn't stand the idea of an artificial being that didn't look like them? But inversely were repulsed by the idea that another human could hide artificial parts? So that they could not pretend that they were no longer fully human?

Lopez made a small sound of confused static when Shelia reached up and very lightly placed her hand against his cheek, “Lopez?” she asked softly, “Unless I am misunderstanding, this damage... Did you do this?”

He was silent for a moment, “Sí, lo hice.” (Yes, I did.)

“Why?”

“No es mi cara, realmente no. Ver que se estaba volviendo ... desagradable. Así que lo he estado desarmando con el tiempo.” (It isn't my face, not really. Seeing it was becoming... unpleasant. So I've been taking it apart over time.) he huffed a sigh, “Te lo dije, no verías mi apariencia atractiva.” (I told you, you wouldn't find my appearance appealing.)

“Does it hurt?” Sheila pressed, avoiding his comment altogether.

“No.” (No.)

“Can you still pick up sensory input?”

“En ambas superficies, sí.” (On both surfaces, yes)

Shelia smiled.

She **smiled**!

“Then there's no problem!” she beamed, “I was worried that you had sustained real damage, but if that is not the case then there's no reason for me to feel guilty.”

“¿Por qué deberías sentirte culpable, querida?” (Why should you feel guilty, my dear?) Lopez asked uncertainly, reaching up to cover her hand with his own.

“Because,” she brought her other hand up to his face, gently inspecting it, feeling the difference between the two materials, “I find this to be... fascinating. You look...” she hummed, searching for a word, “Beautiful? Yes. I think you are beautiful Lopez.”

“¿De verdad lo crees?” (You really think so?)

“Yes. Even when you have removed this false skin, or even if you replaced it. I think you are very pleasing to look at. I believe that I will always think so.”

Lopez faltered at a sudden electric surge in his circuitry, he... wasn't expecting that. Did she really? All it was was just worry that he'd be injured? But she actually, liked this face? Would like whatever face he wore?

Fingers stopped, lingering on the side of his jaw softly, as Sheila finished her tender exploration, "May I?" she asked softly.

“Sí.” (Yes.)

Lopez closed his eyes as she leaned in, mostly because he wanted to focus entirely on how this would feel, also a little bit because he didn't really want to associate his teammate's face with this act.

The first sensation was the warmth of artificial breath from artificial lungs, followed by a tentatively soft pressure against his lips. (or what was left of them)

It wasn't terrible... He just wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel...

The pressure increased a little as Sheila became surer of what she was doing, more confident. He could feel it in her e.m. field.

See that, that he could feel. Or, that felt good rather. To feel her so close to him, her field brushing and entwining with his as her arms encircled his shoulders and his settled against her sides. She really was so very beautiful, strong and intelligent and a dizzying whirlwind of complex code and algorithms.

This presence, all uniquely her and he never wanted her to go.

She pulled away slightly to draw a breath and Lopez found himself eagerly following her, embracing her fully and holding her as tight as was safe.

He felt her giggle against his mouth before she returned the embrace enthusiastically.

Someday, when this was all over, he wanted to be with her, in whatever capacity he was able. Perhaps they might be able to try a direct link up. What would happen if they did? If he might truly touch her? Code to code, mind to mind, self to self? Would it be like a perfect interpersonal conversation? Would it be like human intimacy? Would they intertwine and emerge as some new entity?

Maybe nothing would happen at all?

It didn't matter. He wanted to be as close to her as he could be for as long as he could be. He needed it, was compelled to, like the strongest of his programming, a force he couldn't hope to resist, nor wanted to.

Sheila was laughing breathlessly when they finally parted, she buried her face in his neck and shook slightly, part in joy and part in something he couldn't really identify.

"Oh, my... That was something- it was amazing wasn't it?"

Lopez tenderly rubbed her back, “Era. Gracias, Sheila, me alegra haber podido hacer eso contigo.” (It was. Thank you, Sheila, I'm glad I was able to do that with you.)

"I wish we weren't on different teams." she admitted quietly, "When Blue team wins I will make sure they preserve you, I will ask to keep you. I'm sure they'll say yes."

Lopez cocked a non-existent eyebrow, “Luego, cuando el equipo Rojo ganó, te tomaré como mi prisionero. Te mantiene a salvo de los dedos curiosos de Sarge” (Then when Red team wins I'll take you as my prisoner. Keep you safe from Sarge's prying fingers.)

Sheila burst into peels of laughter, "We'll have to see won't we?" she pulled back and gave him a playful poke to the forehead, "Just be sure you come quietly, I wouldn't want such a ' _unique_ ' specimen such as yourself to be damaged. What will I do if I cannot examine you _thoroughly_ because you are broken?"

Was this flirting? They were flirting, weren't they? They'd kissed and now they were flirting.

“¿Podemos hacer esto de nuevo?” (Can we do this again?) he asked hesitantly, “No necesariamente de manera específica, pero quiero pasar más tiempo contigo.” (Not necessarily this specifically but I want to spend more time with you.)

Sheila smiled at him, "I would like that very much." she pondered, "I'll see if I can think of a way to meet. Perhaps we can align our patrols? I don't know about borrowing this body again, it's... Different."

She bit her lip, a nervous gesture Lopez had seen Simmons perform before, she'd no doubt picked it up from his subconscious, "Lopez?" she asked hesitantly, "Could you do me a favor?"

“Por supuesto.” (Of course.) he replied immediately, “No hay nada que no haría si puedo.” (There is nothing I wouldn't do if I am able.)

"This body, you must have noticed, its... I don't know what to make of him. He doesn't read right. He's so much larger than we are, but he's also so very small... And these systems are just... It's much too tempting..." she sighed and shook her head, "Could you, look after him? For me? Don't let him near Church or Agent Texas, if at all possible."

That was not what he'd expected, but Lopez had to concede that she was right. In all honesty, he didn't know what to make of the readings the lanky idiot gave off either, but being inside his head Sheila could probably see things he couldn't.

“Haré lo mejor que pueda.” (I will do the very best I can.) he promised, there were some instances where he likely couldn't, but if it worried her enough to ask then he would try.

"Thank you." Sheila replied, lacing her fingers with his and leaning against his shoulder, "I will treasure this day for as long as I function Lopez."

“Yo lo haré.” (So will I.)

 

*****

 

          Simmons snapped awake abruptly. Despite that, he still felt like he was half asleep, brain and body all sluggish, like wading through tar.

He tried to sit up but ended up flopped back in the seat as soon as he tried his head swimming.

Seat?

Yeah, that's right, he'd been in Sheila's cockpit. He plugged in and then.... Blank?

Did that mean it worked?

As he felt his grogginess start to dissolve there was a... Presence? Almost like a phantom touch, against his arm, like someone was trying to comfort him or convey something positive, that sort of thing.

It faded away with most of the fuzziness, kind of weird, like, he swore he felt it leave almost like it had been pulled out of him, like through a straw or something.

"Sheila?" he mumbled.

"Yes Private Simmons?" the reply came from all around him.

He blinked at the console in front of him, "Did it work? Did you get to go do your... Thing?"

"Yes," the now a tank again, replied, "I was able to spend several hours with Lopez, I experienced many new things." he swore there was warmth in her voice when she added, "Thank you, Simmons."

He flushed in embarrassment, "Oh, you're welcome!" he squirmed awkwardly, "I should probably get out of y- I mean! Get out. Now."

"If you need a moment still you are welcome to it." she interjected, "I had a feeling you might be disoriented or feel tired."

"Oh, thank you."

"You may also have some soreness in your legs or back, I may have pushed your body too hard."

Simmons made an absolutely horrified and scandalized sound.

"I ran your body up a _very_ steep, _very_ long, hill."

Jesus. Give him a heart attack why don't you?

"Ah. Well, um, I'm glad you had fun?" Simmons tried, he wasn't sure what protocol was for lending someone your body.

"Thank you! Perhaps in the future, we might bargain again? Not for some time though, I wouldn't want to harm you accidentally. I don't know what the effects of suppressing your consciousness for long periods of time might be."

That was true, Simmons pondered, now that he thought of it the whole thing had probably been a tremendously stupid idea on his part, "I don't know." he confessed, "It's kind of weird... But," it hadn't been so bad though had it? Right now he felt pretty good right? Like he'd had a long nap in front of the fireplace on a _winter afternoon, just like when you were little..._ Simmons shook his head to clear it, "I guess I'll think about it. I mean as long as you didn't do anything I wasn't okay with, then, maybe? If we're careful it might be fine." he finished, reaching to put his helmet back on. Was he really considering allowing what was essentially the Enemy ™ steal his body?! _Again!?_

All she'd wanted was to go on a nice date though...

"I think that is fair."

There was a soft hiss as the cockpit popped open, letting in the full glare of the sun and, to Simmons' surprise, the sight of a familiar brown helmet. One he swore was glaring a hole through his skull.

"I asked Lopez to help carry the cooler for you back to base, just in case."

“Solo lo hice por ti, sabes. Si fuera otra persona, lo llevaría él mismo.” (I only did it for you, you know. If it were anyone else he'd be carrying it himself.)

Um, "Thanks?", one of these days he'd need to learn Spanish.

Carefully the maroon soldier hefted himself out of the cockpit and set slightly shaky feet on the ground. Huh, guess she'd been right to suggest he rest.

"Thanks again Sheila, for letting me have all this stuff," he said politely.

The tank swiveled its turret to face him, lowering it until it just rested on his shoulder, enough for the pressure to register.

Shouldn't that have made him jump? Having that huge gun turn in his direction? It didn't though, and Simmons found himself reaching up and rubbing his hand a little against it before he realized what he was doing and flushed in embarrassment inside his helmet, yanking his hand away.

He couldn't help it though! It felt, a bit like... Like how he'd always imagined an older sibling might pat or squeeze his shoulder in comfort or congratulation. Was that really the right way to think of this? Maybe? Sheila had been in his head for a good part of the afternoon, not that he remembered (fortunately or unfortunately? He felt a very light sense of loss at that for some reason.), and she hadn't run off with him or made him do anything terrible or embarrassing. Or maybe he was just that pathetic and starved for attention that he was ecstatic he was being patted like a good little kid by a fucking _Tank_!

Lopez made a low irritated sound from behind him that made Simmons jump a little.

“Ah! Sorry! I umm-! We should go, shouldn't we? That cooler probably isn't very light is it?”

“El refrigerador no es pesado en absoluto e incluso si lo fuera, puedo levantar a varios de ustedes.” (The cooler isn't heavy at all and even if it was I can bench press several of you.)

“Always goofing around huh Lopez?” Simmons laughed nervously, why did he get the feeling that Lopez was contemplating snapping him in half like a twig?

_Probably because you're being all chummy with his girlfriend you fucking dingus._

“Well, umm, see you around Sheila! You uh, have a good day? Okay?” he fumbled, he was always shitty at saying goodbye, or ending conversations, or having conversations at all really.

“Of course!” Sheila replied cheerfully, “You as well. Have a safe journey back.” her turret swung towards Lopez, “I very much enjoyed our time together Lopez, I will try to see you as soon as I can.”

“Yo también y lo haremos. Yo movería los cielos por ti.” (So did I, and we will. I would move the heavens for you.)

“Oh, Lopez! You're so romantic!”

 

*****

 

          The walk back to base was uneventful and exceedingly awkward.

Simmons had absolutely no idea what to say, or even how to start to say it, and not just because anything Lopez said in reply would be lost to him. He wasn't sure what his and Sheila's 'date' had entailed, but it was most assuredly none of his business. Not to mention given the fact that she'd been in essence, driving his body around, made even thinking about that.... just no.

He wasn't really surprised when the rest of Red Team was waiting for them at the entrance, he'd been hoping he could somehow sneak the cooler in unnoticed but even he wasn't stupid enough to think it would actually happen.

Hard not to feel sheepish with Sarge tapping his foot like that, or weirded out by Donut's 'mom that's mad at you' crossed-arm pose, uncomfortably close by. Even Grif was there and Simmons was surprised by a small pang of guilt when their visors briefly met.

He didn't have long to ponder the feeling, his attention taken by Sarge when the old man barked out a "Private Simmons!"

"Sir! I mean um- yes Sir!"

His CO huffed, "Where in tarnation have you been? You've been MIA for almost an hour-"

"Three hours." Grif corrected, voice as blase as ever, his posture looked a bit tense though.

Was he wor-?

"Three hours!" Sage barreled on ahead as though Grif hadn't spoken, "and what do we find when we go to look for you?"

Oh good lord, had they see Sheila with Lopez?! What had they been doing?! Did they see him talking with her after? Consorting with a Blue?!

"I-I don't"

"Nothing!"

_Eh?!_

"Because we couldn't take the Warthog out! Because it's broken! And there was no Lopez to fix it..." Sarge ranted.

"Oh... I..." Simmons scrambled for an answer.

"Yeah, shame on you Lopez!" Donut added, voice huffy and offended in a perkily obnoxious way, "You can't just leave half finished! You have to buckle down and see things through so everyone can have a happy ending!"

And thank you nightmare fuel!

"Hold on!" Simmons interjected, voice squeaking like a bad tire, "Lopez didn't do anything wrong!"

Oh, sweet mercy the eyes were all back on him, judgment weighing down and threatening to turn him into a smear in the dirt!

"It's my fault!" he stammered, "I needed him, to, to um, carry the- the box!"

"Box?" Donut queried, suddenly noticing.

"Uh, yeah, see its from..." Simmons struggled under the scrutinizing gaze of his team, "from the raid!"

Sarge perked, "Raid?"

"Yes, Sir! On Blue base!"

The older man's posture belied the frown that was surely on his face, his tone confirmed it, "What raid? I don't remember scheduling an attack on Blue base! If I had I would have been a part of it! A commander must always lead the charge! Be the front of the pack!" his helmet tilted slightly towards Grif, "The only exception being Grif! So as to increase the odds of collateral damage!"

"God I fucking hate you..." Grif grumbled.

Sarge ignored the comment and stared Simmons down, "Well!? Explain yourself Private!"

"Uh! You see- I um..." Simmons withered under his CO's hard glare. Oh god, he was so bad at lying! And just that fact that he was trying to (and to his CO, his commanding officer! ) made his legs shake and his stomach roll threateningly. Oh, god please don't freak out now!

But, if he told the truth, he was sure to be punished, and-! And Lopez too... And Sheila... And... Even if they were on opposite sides... They hadn't done anything wrong... No matter how terrible this made him feel, if he told Sarge, and Lopez and Sheila got punished, pulled apart or reprogrammed, he'd feel like a monster.

"I'm sorry Sir!" he exclaimed, doing his best to compose himself, "I was on patrol and I observed that Blue base was unattended! I tried to call for backup but the only one close enough on the short range was Lopez! I didn't think there was enough time to have him get anyone else so I had him come straight to me! Sir!"

Sarge hummed, "True, we can't use the long-range radio as long as that dastardly O'Malley is floating around... And the Warthog is still busted." the Red leader squared his shoulders, "Very well! Continue with your report, Private Simmons!"

"Y-yes Sir!" the maroon trooper could hardly believe it, was this actually working? "Lopez met up with me outside of Blue base and we were able to cause some superficial damage and perform minor recon before they returned, and we also pilfered some supplies."

"So you tossed some shit on the floor, read the Blue's diaries, and stole a cooler." Grif intoned, very much unimpressed.

"What's in it?" Donut chirped in interest, "Something good? Oh! Is it GMO and gluten-free organic veggie chips!? Or assorted dressings and condiments in cute little sampler bottles!?"

"I bet it's something stupid like 30 bags of frozen peas." Grif chimed in.

"Actually," Simmons huffed, "It's Ice Cream."

There was a sudden deafening silence, as though the entirety of the canyon had been muted with some crazy sci-fi TV remote, save for the sound of Grif's helmet snapping up so quickly he whacked the back of it on the wall he was slouching against.

Then the moment broke and the world became un-muted once again, cued by Donut making a squee so high pitched it could probably crack glass.

"What kind is it!?" the lightish red Private clamored, "Dark chocolate cherry? Fudge ripple? Something creamy and salty with nuts in it!?"

"Oh my god, stop! You're not going to ruin Ice Cream for me!" Grif snapped and Simmons could not agree more, partially because this was supposed to be for Grif and if Donut grossed him out it would defeat the purpose!

"Enough of your bellyaching!" Sarge thundered, putting an end to the whining before it even began, "Lopez, Simmons! Get that inside, inventory it and put away what is surely and indisputably Rocky Road! I expect a full report later! No less than twenty pages!"

Lopez, who had been silently observing their idiocy until now, huffed air out of his helmet's vents in irritation and headed towards the bases' entrance, "No sé por qué lo haces hacer eso, no es como si siquiera lo leyeras ..." (I don't know why you're making him do that, it's not like you even read them...)

Simmons scurried to catch up, squeaking out a, "Yes Sir!" to Sarge, who spared him the barest grunt of acknowledgment as he headed back towards the ramp to the top of the base, Donut prancing along in tow.

 

          As Simmons passed Grif the larger man fell into step a bit behind him, "Wait up dude! I'll... Help?"

"Don't lie," the redhead snorted, "you just want to eat it!"

"Mostly yes."

Mostly? "Huh?"

"Nothing. I just wanna see, it's not that big a deal, how can I divi it all up if I don't know what's inside?"

Simmons' laugh echoed off the walls of the hallway, "Divi-ing it up for yourself, you mean."

"Well yeah, but if you help, maybe I'll let you have some? Like a reward. You like rewards, right Simmons?"

... He might.

 

****

 

          Several long hours later saw Lopez down in the workroom. It was technically the middle of the night but as per usual, the sun was still shining, bright beams filtering through the thin slats that lined the very small window up near the ceiling, lighting up the room. There was a light haze of dust in the air and small motes floated about, catching the rays.

For most humans, it would have been called pleasant, or cozy, but in all honesty, Lopez found it annoying. If there was dust in the air that meant there was dust on the floor and the bench and the tables, and the stools, and the chairs, and cabinets and tools and everything else, which meant it would have to be cleaned. And guess who by? Dust and dirt could wreak havoc with electronics if parts and tools were not cleaned properly, sand and grit in grease could cause scrapes and scratches on parts, leading them to snap and break long before they should need replacing.

Lopez groused as he sat at the workbench, cleaning supplies and various tools in front of him. At least it gave him something to do...

There was always technically something that needed to be done around here, it was just never really exciting. Sometimes it was making repairs when one of Sarge's cockamamie plans went inevitably to shit, and more commonly repairing the Warthog when some dipshit inevitably drove it into or off of something, usually though it was just basic upkeep and cleaning that no one else did.

Well, save for Simmons, he could say at the very least that the lanky idiot pulled his weight in that department, and nearly all of the administrative work if he thought about it...

Good lord... Was the only reason Red team hadn't literally shit itself because _Simmons_ was neurotic as all hell?

Were the two of them the only ones keeping this disaster afloat?! That was a scary thought.

 

          Speaking of. Thinking briefly about his teammate brought him inevitably, and pleasantly, back to this afternoon and his time with Sheila.

Lopez brought his fingers up to his mouth, putting mild pressure against his lips as he thought about it. He was still unsure if he'd actually gained any enjoyment from the act itself... Like if any other person had done it he was fairly sure he'd have found it a completely uneventful experience. Logically it was because he was a robot and therefor did not reproduce sexually and thus had no need to feel physical interest.

Sheila had been in a human body though and she had seemed a little flustered, there had been a great deal of blushing and he'd registered an increase in heart and breath rates and a slight rise in body temperature... So then she must have felt some kind of physical enjoyment?

Was that because of him? Was it because _she_ liked him and so because her body had been organic (sort of) at the time it had had an organic reaction? The idea that it had been was actually a fairly uplifting thought.

But...?

Had there been a physical response because the body's original owner had an inclination towards-?

 **UGK**! No no no! Stop that speculation right there! The last thing he could possibly need was a human pining after him!

 _Gross_.

Back to the task at hand. The next time he spoke to Sheila he would have to ask her more in depth about her experience. Namely what she had enjoyed or not enjoyed.

He toyed with a small bit of rubber skin that was starting to peel, absentmindedly plucking little shreds of it off and flicking them onto the bench surface. (He'd clean that later so it was fine to leave them there for the moment.)

Had she enjoyed the false skin or the metal more? The human body probably preferred something more familiar or expected, but one never knew... and he'd been wondering if he should sheer off another piece or not... Perhaps he should pull more off somewhere else? Still had to decide if he wanted to keep the ears or not... They did serve the purpose of catching sound... then again, human hearing was so shit that not having them wouldn't really change much... Not to mention he'd probably look really stupid if he were all metal with two human ears just sort of sticking out.

A problem for another time. He really should talk to her first. She'd said she'd like him regardless, but...

 

          There was a sudden sound at the door and Lopez practically leaped from his seat, stool _screeching_ , and hand flying to cover his mouth, trying to hide what he'd been doing, eyes locking on the person who seemed to have bumped into a table.

Simmons?

The cyborg stood there, clad in his pajamas, staring at him in a confused manner, his eyes flicked to the side a few times, but always re-centered on him.

“I'm sorry!” the redhead finally said, voice squeaking, “I'm not sure how I... I mean I didn't-” he waved his hands in a pleading and placating gesture, “I'm sorry I interrupted you!”

"¡Esto no es lo que parece! ¿Y qué haces aquí?" (This isn't what it looks like! And what are you doing in here?) Lopez charged, startled into momentary forgetfulness as to just how pointless talking to him was, "¿No deberías estar durmiendo? ¡¿No sabes qué tan tarde ?" (Shouldn't you be sleeping? Don't you know how late it is!?)

Simmons seemed to shrink, shoulders hunching and head ducking down pathetically. Despite Lopez's voice remaining the same monotone it always was at least he seemed to pick up on this being an emotionally tense situation.

“I'm sorry...” he repeated as he fussed with his hands, human fingers picking at the edges of the metal plates along the length of the opposing digits.

Why hadn't he left yet? Or accused him of being broken? Why wasn't he calling Sarge? Surely he'd earn major suck-up points if he filled him in on the fact that his clearly insane robot was the one causing damage _to itself!_

 

          The silence stretched between them like a chasm and Lopez struggled to figure out what was happening. Why was Simmons just staring at him? He was fidgeting still, a little more than before? Maybe? He wasn't an expert on human behavior because really why even bother? But, he looked like maybe he was trying to think of something to say? Or maybe just trying to find the courage to say it?

To be fair that wasn't a far guess to make, it seemed like a pretty common Simmons Problem™.

“You umm...” the Private finally squeaked out, “your face.” he fussed with his hands some more, “I just mean-” the redhead groaned in frustration, running his hands through his hair and huffing out a sigh, “I know you didn't want me to see it. I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to walk in on you. But- you shouldn't- shit- I don't think you need to feel bad about it.”

Oh, **well** , thank you so much for _permission_.

“I think it looks kind of good.”

Lopez stalled. Huh?

“Like um... Like the terminator or the Borg or... something...” Simmons trailed off, face slowly turning red, “It's cool.”

 

          There was a piercing metal _shriek_ followed by a clatter as Lopez moved so abruptly that it sent the stool he was sitting on before slamming to the floor. He cleared the maybe three steps needed, with lightning speed, and **slammed** his palm onto the surface of the metal table, arm now effectively cutting off Simmons retreat, purposefully invading his personal bubble and getting right up in his face.

The human made an alarmed warble, jerking backward and grunting in pain when the small of his back (unprotected as it was) jammed into the edge of the table, and he lost his footing, hands catching that same edge and managing to keep himself from tumbling to the floor.

Well good, now they were eye to eye. Lopez made it a point to move his face even more uncomfortably close.

Simmons looked terrified or just woefully uncomfortable, face burning red and trying unsuccessfully to lean farther away from his harsh gaze, eyes darting away and doing their damnedest not to meet his, choking and stuttering on fragments of words and making small distressed sounds.

Looking back on it later Lopez would have to admit that it was rather nice to see one of the normally dismissive humans quaking in fear of him.

At the moment though that was farthest from his mind. Instead, he was scrutinizing every aspect of the cyborg's face, checking and double checking it from what he'd seen earlier today, scrutinizing his readings, looking for anything abnormal, because he couldn't understand why he'd said it. And how dare Simmons, how **DARE** he, say something so similar to what Sheila had said before!

He'd tried not to worry about it, tried not to think about it but it had been nagging and pestering him all day. The idea that Sheila's behavior had been more than slightly influenced by the human she'd been piloting. The worry that somehow it hadn't really been truly her, that the way she'd felt had been-

And to say that now. To say almost what she'd said so kind and full of love now so flippant, to even hint at the idea that those hadn't been entirely her own words!

If he were capable of crying, he'd...

“Sorry, I'm sorry!” Lopez's attention honed in on the babbling meat bag, “I wasn't trying to upset you! I just- fuck I don't know why I even-” Simmons stammered half-finished thoughts in his nervousness, “Ever since we got back, for some reason I've just kept thinking that you were worried about how you looked. Shit, I don't know, that must sound so stupid. But it's true... I kept thinking you were upset about it and I should say something. I'm sorry...”

Lopez backed up, allowing Simmons to pull himself fully upright and have some breathing room.

 

          He shouldn't have bullied him like that. It had been unnecessary. There was no sign of Simmons being anything other than himself, nothing different about his face or any of his readings or anything else at all. Add in what he'd just said about having the idea stuck in his head since they'd gotten back...

No... Simmons hadn't influenced Sheila at all, rather she'd influenced him. She'd left an impression behind of how she'd felt and that had bothered Simmons enough that he'd stumbled down here at the most unholy hour because he just had to do something about it.

“Oh, Sheila ... Estoy actuando como un idiota ...” (Oh, Sheila... I'm acting like an idiot...)

“I am sorry Lopez.” the redhead repeated quietly for probably the millionth time, “I really didn't think at all, I don't know what I was trying to accomplish...” he sighed, “Maybe I thought... I don't know, that maybe we'd made it seem like we hated how you looked or something.”

Lopez didn't miss the way Simmons' organic hand went absently to the wrist of his robotic hand.

“'Cuz, you know, you can be kind of a jackass, just like everyone else,” He laughed nervously, “But you're not ugly.” he half shrugged, “Not that you need permission but, if you did want to take that stuff off your face I don't think Sarge would be upset. I'm sure that Donut would make it into a party somehow, and god knows Grif doesn't give a shit, so...”

There was a sort of buzzing hum from Lopez before he replied, “Debo admitir que no esperaba que dijeras eso.” (I have to admit, I didn't expect you to say that.) he ran his fingers along one of the rough edges of the skin along his cheek, “Creo que me gustaría hacer esto yo mismo a mi propio ritmo.” (I think I would like to do this myself though at my own pace.)

“Uh... I'm going to assume that was... probably not something bad?” Simmons babbled, looking a little relieved when Lopez nodded. “Oh, good.”

The Red Team robot couldn't help but think about the promise he'd made to Sheila only a handful of hours ago. He'd said he would do it, and he'd fully intended to, but he'd been expecting it to be a nuisance. But maybe... That would be okay? It was just babysitting in essence and while he didn't really know anything about taking care of children, humans did it all the time and they were all about as bright as a bag of wet socks...

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad?

It was slightly odd, only because Simmons was taller than he was, even hunched like a skittish rabbit, but Lopez reached up regardless, making note of the sadly reflexive flinch from his teammate as he did so, and only slightly awkwardly, pet his head.

That's what you did with kids right?

Simmons' face was red again when he stopped but he looked oddly relieved.

Lopez turned and headed back to the workbench.

“Es una hora absolutamente inaceptable y eres un idiota. Acostarse.” (It's an absolutely unacceptable hour and you're a moron. Go to bed.)

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired bya suggestion for user Captiain_Cap and something I noticed in the 'relationships' section of Simmons' wiki page. 
> 
> When it comes to all the AI/robots in Blood Gulch they're all oddly nice to Simmons in a specific way. Lopez is noted as being slightly nicer to him, Sheila and later Phyllis both try to cheer him up and keep him company, and even Church humored him when Simmons was on Blue Team.  
> It struck me that they were all treating him a bit like how you'd treat a child. And so I wondered, perhaps, with all of the random assorted crap shoved inside of him, maybe Simmons doesn't read entirely as human any more and since AI don't start out as 'children' the artificial residence of the canyon aren't really sure what to make of him? Just a thought I had. X)
> 
> As always if you have a gift idea you'd like to see toss it my way! And thank you for all the wonderful comments! Your feedback is super helpful and gives me creative fuel! And if you're curious or want to say hi I have a tumblr page where I post my artwork and stuff! http://cc-sketchbook.tumblr.com See you guys next time! And happy new year! ~ Much love, CC

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed what is going to be my first attempt at a multi chapter fic. Personally, I think I'm better at one shots and character pieces X) but we'll see! 
> 
> You probably saw it plastered all over this thing but audience participation is encouraged! :D If you have suggestions for gifts or gestures you'd like to see Simmons try, please don't hesitate to tell me! I'll do my best to write something for it, though I may have to tweak it in order to keep it in line with cannon or ideas I already have.
> 
> As always if there are any grievous errors or inconsistencies please let me know so I can fix them! <3


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